The Winter's Song

Through the thick winter fog, a man appeared. He was lost, and on a long journey home. The icy wind pushed him back and forth, as if he was a tree, softly swaying in the arctic breeze. He pressed on through the rain and snow, his large brown overcoat weighing his shoulders down. He carried a small sack in his gloved hands. Small silver bells hanging from the sack rang out as he trekked through the endless storm.

The man’s boots crunched through the frost on the ground, and he finally stopped and rested on a snow covered stone. Above him, birds flew south to rest in the warm air. The man looked up, his long gray beard flecked with the ice and rain that filled the sky. A single blackbird flew down, perching on a leafless tree nearby. The bird sang out, its voice ringing through the mist, and its song touching the old man’s heart. The blackbird used as its rhythm, the rushing current of the rivers, and the soft pitter-patter of the rain as it fell to the ground. Its voice was the lead instrument, as it flew into the air again. The man watched the bird fly away, until it had disappeared into the darkening sky.

He opened his sack, pulled out a wooden flute, and put it to his lips. He began to play the same beautiful song he had heard moments ago. He closed his eyes, and focused on the music. He knew he had heard the tune before, but he didn’t need to know where. He just needed to let the music circle him. The wind slowed and the man put his flute carefully back in the sack. He picked the sack up, the bells jingling, and pushed himself off the rock starting his journey home once again.

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In the sky, the blackbird broke apart from his group, and flew through the freezing air. He whisked his way through the fog, letting his wings stretch far, imagining sun streaking through the sky, as if it were just another summer day. He flew over the mountains, spotting the old man he had sung to. When the man stopped to rest again, the bird sang in the air out of sight, knowing his song would lead the man home. The bird looked through the fog to where the man sat, and was pulled into his memories.

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Many years before, the young blackbird flew in the summer air, close to the ground. He watched two boys playing with butterfly nets, swinging them around to scare flies and bees. The bird flew closer to them, carefully weaving around the nets. He was about to fly to an oak tree, when one of the boy's nets swung a little too close to him. It hit him on the wing, and he crumpled to the forest floor.

The two boys looked at the bird on the ground, not sure what to do. All of the sudden, they burst out laughing, high-fived, and ran away, leaving the bird to suffer. The blackbird heard a faint crunching of leaves behind him, but was in too much pain to get up. A young man entered the clearing, holding a sack with jingling silver bells. He saw the bird on the ground, and immediately dropped to his knees to take a closer look. He examined the wing, and looked around the forest floor for twigs. The bird sadly sang a song as the man searched the ground, and the man listened for a minute before returning to his hunt. He grabbed a stick and pulled a shoelace off his boot.

He held the twig to the bird's wing, wrapped his shoelace around it, and carefully backed away. The bird looked at his new splint, and slowly got to his feet. He hobbled toward the big oak tree, and lay down to rest, the pain slowly ebbing away. As the bird drifted into sleep, he knew one day he would repay the favor to the man.

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The old man heard the song again. Fainter this time, but still clear in his ears and mind. He stood up quickly, knowing the song would lead him forward, and give him strength to complete his journey. When night fell, the man began to lose hope, thinking he would never find his home. He walked forward for an hour more, and finally stopped for the night. He sat down beneath an evergreen tree, the only shelter he knew for miles around. He fell into an uneasy sleep, and dreamed of his feet finally bringing him to the old wooden cottage he called home.

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The blackbird flew ahead, his wings spread tirelessly through the sky, knowing the old man would be awake soon. He landed on a tree branch to settle for the night, and waited for the moon to come out. The moon pushed out from behind the clouds, and the blackbird sang again, his voice lifting in the song he had sung earlier that day. The cherry tree he was perched on began to bloom, small blossoms breaking through the buds around them. The voice of the lonely blackbird was their sun and water, pushing them to grow and grow, until they could grow no more.

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The old man woke up, yawning and stretching. He stood up to begin this day’s adventure. The bird began to sing again, guiding the old man west, toward his home. After hours of traveling, the old man saw the house from his dreams, the small brick chimney shooting smoke into the sky. The man ran toward his home, his arms open, the bells on his sack jingling. Tears filled his eyes, and blurred his vision as he reached the cottage, out of breath. The song of the blackbird still echoed in the air, even though the bird had stopped singing.

The man pushed the door open, and looked around his house. A fire was in the fireplace, and an old woman sat in front of it, rubbing her cold hands together to keep warm. She turned her head to see the man, and tears filled her own eyes.

She cried out in joy, and ran toward the man, hugging him, and sobbing into his shoulder. The blackbird, now sitting on the roof of the old man’s home, knew his job was done. He flew back into the air as a few light raindrops began to fall, singing his song one more time for the man, knowing that he would hear it from below. Inside the house, the man pulled out his flute, playing along to the blackbird’s song, as the old woman hummed the melody. The bird flew through the now pouring rain, and said good bye to the man, but knowing someday, they would meet again.