THERE’S A SPARROW ten feet from my head.
It’s perched on a budding redbud tree outside the window of my second-story home office.
Buddy the Dog lies sprawled on the carpeted floor behind me, eyes closed. So the sparrow can rest in peace on its rain-blackened branch, bobbing gently in the wind.
World silent, or nearly so.
Yet something is happening.
After the overnight rain, chestnut brown buds have popped out all over my ash tree.
The redbud is flaunting its bloom, a peacock with roots.
Off in the distance, along the creek bank, I see a lone willow swaying, brilliantly green. Someone added a dash of yellow.
I create books from thin air.
Every springtime, God creates the world all over again.
“Behold, I make all things new,” (Revelation 21:5, NKJV).
What’s new about that? He’s doing it all the time.
He’s doing it right now as rain begins to pick at the window and cling to the screen.
That’s how you make a redbud blur. Details fold into each other, but the colors hold fast.
There you go. From realism to abstract in the blink of a splash.
I’ll watch the artist work.
Buddy, nap a little longer.