Sparrow's Flight

Sparrow wept as she soared away from Cottonwood. The image of his drooping branches seared into her mind, and she fought a sob rising in her chest. A few of his leaves had fluttered to the ground, staining the dusting of snow in spots of yellow and orange.

The honking from the street dulled as she flew higher and higher among the skyscrapers, but she didn’t notice. She thought about Cottonwood, rooted to his small patch of grass among the buildings, a flash of light in the dark, dull gray that seemed to settle over the city even in the summer. She thought of Beetle’s untimely trampling, and the abuse Squirrel faced from the humans. She mourned for her friends.

They were gone.

She imagined flying back to the city in the spring. Would Cottonwood even be there? She hadn’t told him, but she’d heard whispers. Too old, they hissed. A health hazard.

“Preposterous!” Sparrow angrily tweeted to the empty air. A health hazard? Cottonwood hadn’t dropped a branch in all the time she knew him, thank you very much. He was old, yes--she couldn’t deny it, as the plaque by his trunk said he was the oldest tree in the city--but he wasn’t damaged.

A cold breeze rushed through the air and Sparrow shivered. She felt a tremble of relief at the thought of warmer days down south, followed by piercing guilt. How dare she feel relieved, when Cottonwood was stuck frozen in the city. He’d be slower, and sleepier, she knew that--but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be lonely.

Sparrow landed in Cottonwood’s branches every morning. She loved the feeling of life buzzing in his leaves and through his roots. She loved the feel of the rough bark between her toes.

“Morning, Sparrow!” Cottonwood would say.

“Morning, Cottonwood!” she’d sing in return. “It’s a beautiful day!”

And it was, because every day was a beautiful day to Sparrow. 

Every day used to be a beautiful day to Sparrow.

She’d first met Cottonwood on a blistering hot day in the middle of July. She flew through the streets, her throat growing more and more parched and her heartbeat racing faster and faster as the sun blazed on. She felt her skin burn beneath the feathers. Her eyes watered.

She couldn’t cry. She’d have no water left.

Sparrow tried to dip her beak in the cups on restaurant patios, but the humans shooed her away. She tried to call out for help, and they threw things at her.

And then, in the middle of all the silver and gray, right as she was about to give up and find a nice skyscraper roof to die on, a flash of green caught her eye.

She turned so sharply in mid-flight, she worried she broke a wing. She zoomed toward the green, barely registering it was a tree, and crashed into its branches.

“OUCH!”

“I’m--I’m sorry,” panted Sparrow. “I’m...just...so…thirsty!”

“Oh, you poor thing!” said Cottonwood. “There’s always a small puddle in the divet by my trunk, right there on the ground!”

Sparrow gasped in shock and ecstasy all at once, and toppled from the branch. She landed right next to the small puddle and drank until she couldn’t fit another drop.

“People water me for good luck,” said Cottonwood. “It says so on that plaque.”

“Mm,” said Sparrow, barely hearing him. She flew to one of his larger branches and settled beneath the ceiling of leaves, basking in the shade. “Well, that good luck just about saved my life. Thank you, sir!”

“Call me Cottonwood.”

“Ah. Thank you, Cottonwood!”

“And your name?”

“Sparrow.” She sighed, melting in the glorious feeling of a belly full of water and the cooling of her feathers. She noticed the plaque on the ground, a few feet from his trunk. The humans gave it a swift glance as they hurried down the sidewalk.

“Well, you’re welcome to drink out of the puddle any time, Sparrow.”

And from that day on, Sparrow visited her friend every morning, even on days when she wasn’t particularly thirsty.

Sparrow suddenly slammed to a stop in mid-air, right before she smacked into the window of a skyscraper. She shook her head of the memories; she had to concentrate, or she wouldn’t even make it out of the city, let alone south.

Should she make it south?

Tears welled up in her eyes and Sparrow let out a small sob. Her heart ached for Cottonwood, and for the puddle by his trunk. She longed for warm days spent hiding within his leaves, giggling at his jokes, scratching her back by rubbing it against his bark. 

She should turn back.

“Sparrow!” a voice suddenly tweeted from behind her, shaking her from her reverie.

Sparrow whipped around, fluttering her wings to stay in place. “Starling?”

The bird flew up to Sparrow and with a pang, she realized he was the exact same color as Cottonwood’s trunk. A swirl of chocolate.

“How long’s it been?” asked Starling, cocking his head.

“Too long. Flying south?” Sparrow pointed her beak behind her.

“As usual.”

“Me--me too.” Sparrow looked down as the tears threatened again.

Starling flew closer. “A little conflicted there, Sparrow?”

“You could say that.” She sniffed.

Starling lowered his voice. “Leaving friends behind?”

Sparrow blinked. “I--yes. A good friend.”

“Me, too.” Starling twirled. “A good friend would want you to survive, Sparrow, and we can’t survive here in the winter.”

“I--I guess you’re right.”

“And when we survive, we can come back here in the spring and check on our friends.” Starling nodded confidently, and Sparrow found herself smiling.

“You’re right, Starling.” She thought of Cottonwood, sleeping in the snow, and imagined his reaction when she flew into his branches next spring.

“Morning, Sparrow!”

“Morning, Cottonwood! It’s a beautiful day!”

Starling raised his eyebrows and Sparrow nodded, raising her beak to the sun. For Cottonwood, she thought.

The two birds soared higher among the clouds and left the skyscrapers far behind.

This story is a sequel to The Cottonwood Tree.