Little Red Finch

She sat cross-legged on the grass, her brush caught in the air, eyeing her canvas. Something was wrong. She was trying to paint the scene in front of her, a large grass field with people sprawled like cats, enjoying the warm sun and fragrant spring air. So far she had been focusing on the lovers, capturing the moments they whispered sweet nothings into each other’s ears, or when one would share a joke and then both would laugh quietly - as if in a cathedral. She was also trying to snatch the dancing of the trees that moved on the perimeter. They swayed and creaked and smelled of earth and growth and life. She watched as one seemingly bent and whispered to the other, much as the lovers beneath were doing. Yes, this had all been captured and released onto her canvas, yet still, something was wrong. While thinking a dart of color caught her eye. A child in a red shirt, whizzing across the field after a soccer ball. The moment he caught the ball he would kick it again in another direction, using all the force his little body could muster. And then he'd run. No, not run, fly. He reminded her of an excitable red finch, stretching its crunched-up wings in the first warm days of spring. He was so lovingly wild, so chaotic. He ran through the lovers and under the trees, all of them chasing him with a disapproving gaze. But he kept flying, the soccer ball leading him. Even when he stumbled and fell – which was multiple times – he never seemed to touch the ground. As the Artist watched, little did she notice that the flowers and the bees and the spiders and the birds and blooms all watched too. Everyone’s eyes were drawn to the flying boy, and if you could somehow see him amidst all his dashing you would realize that he knew he was being watched, and a little grin pulled at the apples of his cheeks. But being watched was only a small part of his job, his bigger purpose was much more important. So, on and on and on he went, kicking and smiling and flying and enjoying the sunshine and the dewdrops and the eyes of creatures all around. He would never admit it to Fall or Summer, but he quite liked the attention. He noted the Artist, and how she seemed to be watching him the closest. He knew he had come just in time to ruin her picture and was surprised to see no anger in her eyes, feel no animosity in her chest. No, she felt the most joyful of all, besides the bees. She felt spring. Felt such joy at seeing this little finch stretch his wings, at seeing the exuberance of life. She knew he was who she had been waiting for, and that the painting would always be wrong without this little ball of life. Recklessly, childishly, she dipped her fingers into the brightest red on her pallet and mimicked the boy’s movements on the field with her fingers, tracing as he went this way and that. Around the lovers, between the trees, into the sky, and on the sun. Yes look, he was flying away, another little red finch at his side. Her fingers trailed off the canvas as she realized the little finch was gone. But as she looked around the sun shined a little warmer, the flowers stood a little taller, and the trees breathed a little deeper. Spring had truly sprung, thanks to the little boy who stretched his wings.