In the garden today I saw a piece of silver paper, long as a ribbon, flowing behind the deep pink face of a camellia like a wedding train. It had been blown, separated from somebody’s present, maybe a gift for someone’s mother, up into the wide, blue sky and had fallen like a dream into the pink upturned faces of the perfect flowers.
A little bird came down, a tiny wren, catching sight of his reflection and prancing, performing a show for the flowers. He smiled at himself in the silver paper mirror, charmed by his own beauty, warbling at his delicate feet and shimmering wings.
The wind swooped, twisting the silver, snatching it back up to the sky where it coiled and whirled like a shooting star. The wren watched, momentarily deflated, then raised his wings to the light and followed.