Sparrow Sound Quotes

Winter will pass, the days will lengthen, the ice will melt in the pasture pond. The song sparrow will return and sing, the frogs will awake, the warm wind will blow again. All these sights and sounds and smells will be yours to enjoy, Wilbur—this lovely world, these precious days…

SILENCE. The most loaded sound in human history.

Since light travels faster than sound, some people appear bright until you hear them speak - Simon Benford

These autumn days will shorten and grow cold. The leaves will shake loose from the trees and fall. Christmas will come, then the snows of winter. You will live to enjoy the beauty of the frozen world, for you mean a great deal to Zuckerman and he will not harm you, ever. Winter will pass, the days will lengthen, the ice will melt in the pasture pond. The song sparrow will return and sing, the frogs will awake, the warm wind will blow again. All these sights and sounds and smells will be yours to enjoy, Wilbur — this lovely world, these precious days…

The birds, on the other hand, were going crazy. They filled the air with chirps and trills and songs. It was probably sparrow for Holy shit, what’s going on, we’re all gonna die, but it sounded pretty.

I have always known that you will visit my grave. I see myself as a small brown bird, perhaps a sparrow, watching you from a low branch as you pray in front of my name. I will hear you sound out my epitaph: Aqui descansa una mujer que quiso volar. You will recall telling me that you once dreamed in Spanish, and felt the words lift you into flight. The sound of wings will startle you when you say "volar," and you will understand.

Lord, if I thought you were listening, I'd pray for this above all: that any church set up in your name should remain poor, and powerless, and modest. That it should wield no authority except that of love. That it should never cast anyone out. That it should own no property and make no laws. That it should not condemn, but only forgive. That it should be not like a palace with marble walls and polished floors, and guards standing at the door, but like a tree with its roots deep in the soil, that shelters every kind of bird and beast and gives blossom in the spring and shade in the hot sun and fruit in the season, and in time gives up its good sound wood for the carpenter; but that sheds many thousands of seeds so that new trees can grow in its place. Does the tree say to the sparrow, 'Get out, you don't belong here?' Does the tree say to the hungry man, 'This fruit is not for you?' Does the tree test the loyalty of the beasts before it allows them into the shade?

I have always believed reincarnation to be true. This will go on and on until one discovers oneself. But at times, my thinking deviates a bit from eastern philosophy. I don’t think our bad karmas would make us cockroaches, rats, pigs, etc., in our next lives. I am of the view that achieving Moksha isn’t possible unless we experience everything that could be experienced. I have to experience oppression, but I also have to oppress. I have to be a sparrow to experience the joy of flight. I have to be a bee to experience colours beyond the visible spectrum. And I have to be a dog to hear ultrasonic sounds. Do you get it? I have to experience everything to achieve moksha. Becoming a bee in the next life is not the result of my bad Karma. It is instead a stepping stone. The path to ascension has to be a spiral. Not round and round. Every decision of mine has to lead there. Every step has to lead me towards self-actualization.

Since light travels faster than sound, some people appear bright until you hear them speak,

Perfection" Every oak will lose a leaf to the wind. Every star-thistle has a thorn. Every flower has a blemish. Every wave washes back upon itself. Every ocean embraces a storm. Every raindrop falls with precision. Every slithering snail leaves its silver trail. Every butterfly flies until its wings are torn. Every tree-frog is obligated to sing. Every sound has an echo in the canyon. Every pine drops its needles to the forest floor. Creation's whispered breath at dusk comes with a frost and leaves within dawn's faint mist, for all of existence remains perfect, adorned, with a dead sparrow on the ground. (Poem titled : 'Perfection' by R.H.Peat)

Ahhh! The Sky, Heaven and Hell..Those three words were known in the East..Once you take them out of our earthly world, the whole world will fall apart..all the masterpieces we have made would sound and look platitude. I know the West now is an object of admiration for its science and discoveries but what does it worth judging by the greatest discoveries that were found in the east?! Verily the West is exploring the Earth and the East is exploring the Sky.

...in the woods, if you stopped, if you grew still, you'd hear a whole new set of sounds, wind rasping through silhouetted leaves and the cries and chatter of blue jays and brown thrashers and redbirds and sparrows, the calling of crows and hawks, squirrels barking, frogs burping, the far braying of dogs, armadillos snorkeling through dead leaves...

I know this will sound glib, but don’t pretend you aren’t feeling what you feel. That’s how things slide into hell. Feelings are facts,” she said, her voice a little hard, as she began to walk again. “Look straight at ’em and deal with ’em. Work it through, as honestly as you can. If

Things That Make One’s Heart Beat Faster Sparrows feeding their young. To pass a place where babies are playing. To sleep in a room where some fine incense has been burnt. To notice that one’s elegant Chinese mirror has become a little cloudy. To see a gentleman stop his carriage before one’s gate and instruct his attendants to announce his arrival. To wash one’s hair, make one’s toilet, and put on scented robes; even if not a soul sees one, these preparations still produce an inner pleasure. It is night and one is expecting a visitor. Suddenly one is startled by the sound of raindrops, which the wind blows against the shatters.

But they beckoned; leaves were alive; trees were alive. And the leaves being connected by millions of fibres with his own body, there on the seat, fanned it up and down; when the branch stretched he, too, made that statement. The sparrows fluttering, rising, and falling in jagged fountains were part of the pattern; the white and blue, barred with black branches. Sounds made harmonies with premeditation; the spaces between them were as significant as the sounds. A child cried. Rightly far away a horn sounded.

She listens to the delicate fluttering of sparrows' wings, tiny messengers. The sound reminds her of life - struggling, beating, rising, flying, and now dissolving into space.

His entire experience in this city sounded better than it lived. John

synesthete. Someone who perceives sounds, or letters, or numbers as colors.

As I started to walk, it seemed like nothing around me was moving. The trees were as still as in a photograph, and the windows of all the houses were shut tight. There were no people around. No cats, no dogs, no crows. There wasn’t a single sparrow in the sky. My eyes were tingling from the heat. Once the water from Grandpa’s hose was too far away to hear, the only sound left was the cicadas...

It was intensely interesting to Zyuganov, one sort of monster, to see Eva, a derivative miscreation, put her head back and laugh, with the sound of a bag of cleavers bouncing down a flight of stairs.

The birds, on the other hand, were going crazy. They filled the air with chirps and trills and songs. It was probably sparrow for Holy shit, what’s going on, we’re all gonna die, but it sounded pretty. Amos

And not only the world but humanity itself does need dragons” “And why is that?” Chade demanded disdainfully. “To keep the balance,” the Fool replied. He glanced over me, and then past me, out of the window and his eyes went far and pensive. “Humanity fears no rivals. You have forgotten what it was to share the world with creatures as arrogantly superior as yourselves. You think to arrange the world to your liking. So you map the land and draw lines across it, claiming ownership simply because you can draw a picture of it. The plants that grow and the beasts that rove, you mark as your own, claiming not only what lives today, but what might grow tomorrow, to do with as you please. Then, in your conceit and aggression, you wage wars and slay one another over the lines you have imagined on the world’s face.” “And I suppose dragons are better than we are because they don’t do such things, because they simply take whatever they see. Free spirits, nature’s creatures, possessing all the moral loftiness that comes from not being able to think.” The Fool shook his head, smiling. “No. Dragons are no better than humans. They are little different at all from men. They will hold up a mirror to humanity’s selfishness. They will remind you that all your talk of owning this and claiming that is no more than the snarling of a chained dog or a sparrow’s challenge song. The reality of those claims lasts but for the instant of its sounding. Name it as you will, claim it as you will, the world does not belong to men. Men belong to the world. You will not own the earth that eventually your body will become, nor will it recall the name it once answered to.

I have heard the songs of many gods, child. Silly gods, powerful gods, and capricious gods, and biddable gods, and dull. Long ago, when you first welcomed us to your household, and fed us and gave us shelter, and invited us to stay, I listened to you say that we are all -- Jana'ata and Runa and H'uman -- children of a God so high that our ranks and our differences are as nothing in his far sight." Suukmel looked out over the sweep of the valley, dotted now with small stone houses and filled with the sound of voices high and low, home to Runa and to Jana'ata and to the one single outlandish being whom Ha'anala called brother. "I thought then that this was merely a song sung by a foreigner to a foolish girl who believed nonsense. But Taksayu was dear to me, and Isaac was dear to you. I was willing to hear this song, because I had once yearned for a world in which lives would be governed not by lineage and lust and moribund law, but by love and loyalty. In this one valley, such lives are possible," she said. "If it is a mistake to hope for such a world, then it is a magnificent mistake.

El Condor Pasa" I'd rather be a sparrow than a snail Yes I would If I could, I surely would I'd rather be a hammer than a nail. Yes I would If I only could, I surely would. Away, I'd rather sail away Like a swan that's here and gone A man gets tied up to the ground He gives the world Its saddest sound, its saddest sound I'd rather be a forest than a street. Yes I would If I could, I surely would. I'd rather feel the earth beneath my feet Yes I would If I only could, I surely would

Kai, she thought, you are as lost as I am. You have no idea where this beauty comes from and you know better than to think that such clarity could come from your own heart. Maybe, like Sparrow, Kai was terrified that one day the sound would shut off.

There is still life, however. Birds chirp; sparrows, they must be. Their small voices are clear and sharp, nails on glass: there’s no longer there’s no longer any sound of traffic to drown them out. Do they notice that quietness, the absence of motors? If so, are they happier?

D. W. Yarbrough had taught her that she was the heir to an ancient human wisdom, its laws and ethics tested and retested in a hundred cultures in every conceivable moral climate—a code of conduct as sound as any her species had to offer. She longed to tell Supaari of the wisdom of Hillel who taught, a century before Jesus, “That which is hateful to you, do not do unto others.” If you would not live as the Runa must, stop breeding them, stop exploiting them, stop eating them! Find some other way to live. Love mercy, the prophets taught. Do justice. There was so much to share!

The cardinal directions are north, west, south, and east. The cardinal temperatures are 35º Fahrenheit, 67º Fahrenheit, 3º Celsius, and 10º Kelvin. The cardinal locations are a cave, a long-abandoned cabin, the bottom of an oceanic trench, and City Hall. The cardinal emotions are wild abandon, guarded affection, directionless jealousy, and irritation. The cardinal birds are hawk, sparrow, finch, and owl. The cardinal names are Jeremy, Kim, Trigger, and Jamie. And, finally, the cardinal sounds are a door slamming, slight movement in still water, popcorn popping, and a standard guitar G string being snipped with wire cutters. This has been the Children’s Fun Fact Science Corner.

Sometimes," he told her, leaning forward over the table, speaking without realizing how it would sound, "I begin with songs. They provide a sort of skeleton grammar for me to flesh out. Songs of longing for future tense, songs of regret for past tense, songs of love for the present." He blushed when he heard what he’d said, making it worse, but she took no offense; indeed, she seemed to miss any connection that might have been taken wrongly. Instead, she seemed struck by a coincidence and looked out the café window, her mouth open slightly. "Isn’t that interesting," she said, as though nothing else he’d told her so far had been, and continued thoughtfully, "I do the same thing. Have you noticed that lullabies nearly always use a lot of command form?

A Wood in Sound The pine tree sways in the smoke, Which streams up and up. There's a wood in sound. My legs lose themselves Where the river mirrors daffodils Like faces in a dream. A cold wind and the white memory Of a sasanqua. Warm rain comes and goes. I'll wait calmly on the bank Till the water clears And willows start to bud. Time is singed on the debris Of air raids. Somehow, here and now, I am another.

There is something in this Lametrie, a nice slip of our anthropocentrism. Why should Man be at the hub of all analogies? How would plants describe us, I wonder, what classification would they impose upon us? 'Described by a Plant' sounds like a good title to be used later. I feel we're being watched: by rubber plants, sparrow-grass, bonsai, small date palms, Chinese roses, geraniums and lemon trees. They keep an eye on us.

In the Village III Who has removed the typewriter from my desk, so that I am a musician without his piano with emptiness ahead as clear and grotesque as another spring? My veins bud, and I am so full of poems, a wastebasket of black wire. The notes outside are visible; sparrows will line antennae like staves, the way springs were, but the roofs are cold and the great grey river where a liner glides, huge as a winter hill, moves imperceptibly like the accumulating years. I have no reason to forgive her for what I brought on myself. I am past hating, past the longing for Italy where blowing snow absolves and whitens a kneeling mountain range outside Milan. Through glass, I am waiting for the sound of a bird to unhinge the beginning of spring, but my hands, my work, feel strange without the rusty music of my machine. No words for the Arctic liner moving down the Hudson, for the mange of old snow moulting from the roofs. No poems. No birds.

El Condor Pasa" I'd rather be a sparrow than a snail. Yes I would, If I could, I surely would. I'd rather be a hammer than a nail. Yes I would, If I only could, I surely would. CHORUS Away, I'd rather sail away Like a swan that's here and gone A man gets tied up to the ground He gives the world Its saddest sound, Its saddest sound. I'd rather be a forest than a street. Yes I would. If I could, I surely woud. I'd rather feel the earth beneath my feet, Yes I would. If I only could, I surely would.

I held my breath because it seemed the only sound left in the world and all around me then was an extraordinary silence. It made me feel light, that silence, as if I might float to the ceiling, as if I might be able to open my arms, flap them, and fly with the sparrows. I don’t know how long I sat there holding my breath in the dark, but I thought then of how loud the world could be, so much clatter and noise, and of how lovely and rare was a moment like this when one need not listen to anything at all.

Oh, it was beautiful to stand at that open window in the freshness, listening to the robin on the bare lilac bush a few yards away, to the quarrelling of the impudent sparrows on the path below, to the wind in the branches of the trees, to all the happy morning sounds of nature. A joyous feeling took possession of her heart, a sudden overpowering delight in what are called common things — mere earth, sky, sun, and wind. How lovely life was on such a morning, in such a clean, rain-washed, wind-scoured world.

The bugle call of a bull elk in a high mountain basin, the haunting voice of a screech owl on a moonlit night, the song of a white-throated sparrow on a cold winter's morning, or the resounding call of a wild turkey gobbler in spring - there are a certain few sounds in nature that seem to symbolize true wilderness. A gentle north wind moving through a remote forest of longleaf pine on a clear winter's day is one of those voices that stirs something deep inside of us. The grandest organ in the greatest cathedral is but a moan in the darkness by comparison.

The first sparrow of spring! The year beginning with younger hope than ever! The faint silvery warblings heard over the partially bare and moist fields from the bluebird, the song sparrow, and the red-wing, as if the last flakes of winter tinkled as they fell! What at such a time are histories, chronologies, traditions, and all written revelations? The brooks sing carols and glees to the spring. The marsh hawk, sailing low over the meadow, is already seeking the first slimy life that awakes. The sinking sound of melting snow is heard in all dells, and the ice dissolves apace in the ponds.

The actual proof of this Unborn which perfectly manages [everything] is that, as you’re all turned this way listening to me talk, if out back there’s the cawing of crows, the chirping of sparrows or the rustling of the wind, even though you’re not deliberately trying to hear each of these sounds, you recognize and distinguish each one. The voices of the crows and sparrows, the rustling of the wind—you hear them without making any mistake about them, and that’s what’s called hearing with the Unborn. In this way, all things are perfectly managed with the Unborn. This is the actual proof of the Unborn. Conclusively realize that what’s unborn and marvelously illuminating is truly the Buddha Mind,

She rose when the sparrows began to walk out of the roof-holes, sat on the floor of her room in the dim light, and by-and-by peeped out behind the window-curtains. It was even now day out-of-doors, though the tones of morning were feeble and wan, and it was long before the sun would be perceptible in this overshadowed vale. Not a sound came from any of the out-houses as yet. The tree-trunks, the road, the out-buildings, the garden, every object wore that aspect of mesmeric fixity which the suspensive quietude of daybreak lends to such scenes. Outside her window helpless immobility seemed to be combined with intense consciousness; a meditative inertness possessed all things, oppressively contrasting with her own active emotions.

The bird came to Franny of its own accord, as the birds in Central Park always did, flitting over to perch on her shoulder, feathers fluffed out. “That’s a first,” Isabelle said, doing her best not to seem impressed. “No bird has ever done that before.” Franny took the sparrow into her cupped hands. “Hello,” she said softly. The bird peered at her with its bright eyes, consoled by the sound of her voice. Franny went to the window and let it into the open air. Jet and Vincent came to watch as it disappeared into the branches of a very old tree, one of the few elms in the commonwealth that had survived the blight. Franny turned to their aunt. Something passed between them, an unspoken wave of approval. “Welcome home,” Isabelle said.

Without sight to get in the way of things, the whole world was suddenly alive with sound: the lapping of water as it washed around the posts below her, the splashing and skimming of ducks as they landed on the lake's surface, the wooden planks stretching beneath the sun's glare. As she listened, Sadie became aware of a thick blanketing hum behind it all, like hundreds of tiny motors whirring at once. It was a sound synonymous with summer, difficult to place at first, but then she realized. Insects, a hell of a lot of insects. Sadie sat up, blinking into the brightness. The world was briefly white before everything righted itself. Lily pads glistened, heart-shaped tiles on the water's surface, flowers reaching for the sky like pretty, grasping hands. The air surrounding them was filled with hundreds of small winged creatures.

What? Oh, I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to come on so jaded. What scene? This one, the rain, those geese up there with their hard-luck stories . . . this, this same world. They all tried to do something with it. Dante did his best to build himself a hell because a hell presuppose a heaven. Baudelaire scarfed hashish and looked inside. Nothing there. Nothing but dreams and delusion. They all were driven by the need for something else. But when the drive was over, and the dreaming and the deluding worn out, they all ended up with the same dull old scene. But, look, you see, Viv, they had an advantage with their scene, they had something we’ve lost . . .” I waited for her to ask what that something was, but she only sat silently, her hands folded on the black overcoat. “. . . They had a limitless supply of tomorrows to work with. If you didn’t make your dream today, well, there was always more days coming, more dreams full of more sound and fury and future: what if today was a hassle? There was always tomorrow to find the River Jordan, or Valhalla, or that special providence in the fall of a sparrow . . . we could believe in the Great Gettin’-up Morning coming someday because if it didn’t make it today there was always tomorrow.” “And there isn’t any more?” I looked up at her and grinned. “What do you think?

Dedicating my energies to the study of the social organisation which is in the future to replace the present condition of things, I’ve come to the conviction that all makers of social systems from ancient times up to the present year, 187-, have been dreamers, tellers of fairy-tales, fools who contradicted themselves, who understood nothing of natural science and the strange animal called man. Plato, Rousseau, Fourier, columns of aluminium, are only fit for sparrows and not for human society. But, now that we are all at last preparing to act, a new form of social organisation is essential. In order to avoid further uncertainty, I propose my own system of world-organisation. Here it is.” He tapped the notebook. “I wanted to expound my views to the meeting in the most concise form possible, but I see that I should need to add a great many verbal explanations, and so the whole exposition would occupy at least ten evenings, one for each of my chapters.” (There was the sound of laughter.) “I must add, besides, that my system is not yet complete.” (Laughter again.) “I am perplexed by my own data and my conclusion is a direct contradiction of the original idea with which I start. Starting from unlimited freedom, I arrive at unlimited despotism. I will add, however, that there can be no solution of the social problem but mine.

The street sprinkler went past and, as its rasping rotary broom spread water over the tarmac, half the pavement looked as if it had been painted with a dark stain. A big yellow dog had mounted a tiny white bitch who stood quite still. In the fashion of colonials the old gentleman wore a light jacket, almost white, and a straw hat. Everything held its position in space as if prepared for an apotheosis. In the sky the towers of Notre-Dame gathered about themselves a nimbus of heat, and the sparrows – minor actors almost invisible from the street – made themselves at home high up among the gargoyles. A string of barges drawn by a tug with a white and red pennant had crossed the breadth of Paris and the tug lowered its funnel, either in salute or to pass under the Pont Saint-Louis. Sunlight poured down rich and luxuriant, fluid and gilded as oil, picking out highlights on the Seine, on the pavement dampened by the sprinkler, on a dormer window, and on a tile roof on the Île Saint-Louis. A mute, overbrimming life flowed from each inanimate thing, shadows were violet as in impressionist canvases, taxis redder on the white bridge, buses greener. A faint breeze set the leaves of a chestnut tree trembling, and all down the length of the quai there rose a palpitation which drew voluptuously nearer and nearer to become a refreshing breath fluttering the engravings pinned to the booksellers’ stalls. People had come from far away, from the four corners of the earth, to live that one moment. Sightseeing cars were lined up on the parvis of Notre-Dame, and an agitated little man was talking through a megaphone. Nearer to the old gentleman, to the bookseller dressed in black, an American student contemplated the universe through the view-finder of his Leica. Paris was immense and calm, almost silent, with her sheaves of light, her expanses of shadow in just the right places, her sounds which penetrated the silence at just the right moment. The old gentleman with the light-coloured jacket had opened a portfolio filled with coloured prints and, the better to look at them, propped up the portfolio on the stone parapet. The American student wore a red checked shirt and was coatless. The bookseller on her folding chair moved her lips without looking at her customer, to whom she was speaking in a tireless stream. That was all doubtless part of the symphony. She was knitting. Red wool slipped through her fingers. The white bitch’s spine sagged beneath the weight of the big male, whose tongue was hanging out. And then when everything was in its place, when the perfection of that particular morning reached an almost frightening point, the old gentleman died without saying a word, without a cry, without a contortion while he was looking at his coloured prints, listening to the voice of the bookseller as it ran on and on, to the cheeping of the sparrows, the occasional horns of taxis. He must have died standing up, one elbow on the stone ledge, a total lack of astonishment in his blue eyes. He swayed and fell to the pavement, dragging along with him the portfolio with all its prints scattered about him. The male dog wasn’t at all frightened, never stopped. The woman let her ball of wool fall from her lap and stood up suddenly, crying out: ‘Monsieur Bouvet!

Some reputable scientists, even today, are not wholly satisfied with the notion that the song of birds is strictly and solely a territorial claim. It’s an important point. We’ve been on earth all these years and we still don’t know for certain why birds sing. We need someone to unlock the code to the foreign language and give us the key; we need a new Rosetta stone. Today I watched and heard a wren, a sparrow, and the mockingbird sing. My brain started to trill, why why why, what is the meaning meaning meaning? It’s not that they know something we don’t; we know much more than they do, and surely they don’t even know why they sing. No; we have been as usual asking the wrong question. It does not matter a hoot what the mockingbird on the chimney is singing. If the mockingbird were chirping to give us the long-sought formulae for a unified field theory, the point would be only slightly less irrelevant. The real and proper question is: Why is it beautiful? The question is there since I take it as given as I have said, that beauty is something objectively performed- the tree that falls in the forest- having being externally, stumbled across, or missed, as real and present as both sides of the moon…If the lyric is simply, mine mine mine, then why the extravagance of the score? It has the liquid, intricate sound of every creek’s tumble over every configuration of rock creek-bottom in the country. Beauty itself is the language to which we have no key; it is the mute cipher, the cryptogram, the uncracked, unbroken code. And it could be that for beauty there is no key, that it will never make sense in our language but only in its own, and that we need to start all over again, on a new continent, learning the strange syllables one by one.

For a long time, they sat without speaking. The air outside was filled with the lilting sound of sparrows, the buzz of traffic on Main Street, and under that the faint lapping of waves on the lakeshore. Lou smiled. It wasn't the same, but it was better. And better, Lou thought, is a start.

it is never just the robins communicating with the other robins, the song sparrows with the other song sparrows, the juncos with the other juncos. In the yard and in the trees, it’s everyone communicating with (because they are eavesdropping on) everyone else—spring, summer, fall, and winter: ripples within ripples, a vast web with many seams and confusions; concentric rings bouncing off concentric rings; subtle sounds, subtle scents, subtle movements.

Conversely, animals can be quite sensitive to human music. There are stories of dogs who hide under the couch for piano works by atonal composers but not for those by, say, Mozart. One music teacher told me that her dog would heave an audible sigh of relief if she stopped playing complex, fast-moving pieces by Franz Liszt and proceeded to something calmer. And there are reports of cows that produce more milk listening to Beethoven (although, if this is true, shouldn't one hear more classical music on farms?). Birds listen as carefully to sounds as any musician. They have to, because they learn from each other. Many birds are not born with the song they sing: the symphonies they offer us for free in forests and meadows are cultural. White-crowned sparrows, for example, develop their normal song only when they have been exposed early in life to the sounds of an adult of their species. Many songbirds have dialects-differences in song structure from one population to another. One theory about this is that if a female can tell from a male's song that he is a local boy, she may prefer him as a mate, as he may be genetically adapted to regional conditions. Given the variability in song from location to location it is hard to maintain that birdsong is instinctive in the usual sense. There is room for creativity and modification. Some individuals act as star performers, setting new trends in their region.

First of the four, Saint Matthew is the Man; A Gospel that begins with generation, Family lines entwine around the Son Born in Judea, born for every nation, Born under Law that all the Law of Moses Might be fulfilled and flower into Grace; A hidden thread of words and deeds discloses Eternal love within a human face. This is the Gospel of the great reversal: A wayside weed is Solomon in glory, The smallest sparrow’s fall is universal And Christ is the heart of every human story: ‘I will be with you, though you may not see, And all you do, you do it unto me.

In Vedānta, the first principle is Śṛavana—Integrated Listening; the second principle is Manana—Intranalyzing, meaning analyzing the truth for the sake of internalizing it not for rejecting it; and the third principle is Nididhyāsana—Living and radiating the truth! Right listening means allowing the words to enter your inner space automatically; letting them cognize, without you constantly interfering with your incompletions, is Listening. Any listening is God. If you are listening to the sparrow’s sound now without giving any meaning to it—just pure listening—that is God. Only if you learn pure listening, you will also be able to learn and give the right meaning.

These autumn days will shorten and grow cold. The leaves will shake loose from the trees and fall. Christmas will come, then the snows of winter. You will live to enjoy the beauty of the frozen world, for you mean a great deal to Zuckerman and he will not harm you, ever. Winter will pass, the days will lengthen, the ice will melt in the pasture pond. The song sparrow will return and sing, the frogs will awake, the warm wind will blow again. All these sights and sounds and smells will be yours to enjoy, Wilbur — this lovely world, these precious days.

On her way to work the next morning, she is certain this will be one of her last days in Sarajevo. Looking around, she sees how the normal rhythm of the city has been broken and is amazed she didn’t make up her mind to leave before now. Bosnian Serb snipers lie behind sandbags on the tops of buildings and take aim at people in the streets below as if they are sparrows. Sarajevans - old, young, men, women, Muslim, Croat, Serb - dart across the roads in zigzags in an attempt to dodge the bullets. On the tram, passengers duck their heads in a wave when they pass in front of the Jewish Cemetery, where a snipers’ nest is known to be located. Disembarking, a series of blasts sound nearby and she freezes on the tram steps. The man behind pushes her off. They run to take cover in the stone-arched entrance of a locked-up carpet shop. Perhaps a dozen people press up against each other, coffee breath, perfume and the smell of their sweat intermingling. Each explosion sends a collective tremor through them. When they pull apart some twenty minutes later, they don’t look at each other. They brush down their clothes, straighten their shoulders and move off quickly. Zora stares after them, in shock. It’s a quarter to ten on a Tuesday morning. She can’t live like this.

In the shooting range, the sound of the Remington had seemed somehow constrained, clipped, confined, and it got a little under your skin like the sound of someone biting on the blade of a knife. But here on the trout pond, the shotgun was resonant. It boomed like a ship’s cannon and the sound lingered for a full beat. It seemed to give shape to the open air, or rather to reveal the hidden architecture that was there all along—the invisible cathedral that vaulted over the surface of the pond—known to sparrows and dragonflies but invisible to the human eye.

I had hoped this would be easier but – well, it wasn’t.” He sounded tired and disappointed, but when I turned to look at him, he managed a smile. “On to plan B.” “Plan B?” I asked dangerously. “What Plan B?” “Sparrow,” he said, his voice stronger, “there’s always a Plan B. We just have to figure out what it is.

Winter will pass, the days will lengthen, the ice will melt in the pasture pond. The song sparrow will return and sing, the frogs will awake, the warm wind will blow again. All these sights and sounds and smells will be yours to enjoy, Wilbur—this lovely world, these precious days.

I burrowed deeper into Anson’s hold. “I don’t ever want to let those difficult things change me into a hard person.” He brushed the hair out of my face. “You won’t.” I looked up into those blue-gray eyes. “You sound so sure.” Anson stared down at me. There was so much tenderness in his expression. “I am. You’ve faced more hardship than almost anyone I’ve known. But you’ve never let it harden you. That’s a miracle, Rho. You let those things make you better instead of worse. There’s no way you won’t live the rest of your life that way.

My favorite lines of Charlotte’s Web, the lines that always make me cry, are toward the end of the book. They go like this: ‘These autumn days will shorten and grow cold. The leaves will shake loose from the trees and fall. Christmas will come, then the snows of winter. You will live to enjoy the beauty of the frozen world, for you mean a great deal to Zuckerman and he will not harm you, ever. Winter will pass, the days will lengthen, the ice will melt in the pasture pond. The song sparrow will return and sing, the frogs will awake, the warm wind will blow again. All these sights and sounds and smells will be yours to enjoy, Wilbur — this lovely world, these precious days …’ I have tried for a long time to figure out how E. B. White did what he did, how he told the truth and made it bearable. And I think that you, with your beautiful book about love, won’t be surprised to learn that the only answer I could come up with was love. E. B. White loved the world. And in loving the world, he told the truth about it — its sorrow, its heartbreak, its devastating beauty. He trusted his readers enough to tell them the truth, and with that truth came comfort and a feeling that we are not alone. I think our job is to trust our readers. I think our job is to see and to let ourselves be seen. I think our job is to love the world.

Sounds like tortured cats reaching for those high notes,

We’ll do a bit of reconnaissance. If it’s safe, I’ll make a call like a sparrow hawk.’ ‘Like a sparrow hawk?’ said Munro Bruys, anxiously moving his chin. ‘Since when did you know anything about mimicking bird calls, Zoltan?’ ‘That’s the whole point. If you hear a strange, unrecognisable sound, you’ll know it’s me.

What did he do?” I whipped around, startled. I had been so immersed in my own thoughts that I hadn’t even noticed Philantha standing into the doorway to one of the sitting rooms. “Pardon?” “Well, in my experience, it’s usually the man who bumbles about causing most of the problems in relationships of romance,” she said. “So, naturally, I assumed that your young man has done or said or thought something that caused you to come bursting in like a hurricane. Am I correct?” I shook my head so violently the braid coiled around my head threatened to come loose. “We’re not in a…relationship of romance. He’s just my friend.” Philantha made a sound surprisingly like a snicker. “Truly?” she asked. “I suppose that’s why he’s been with you most evenings.” “Like I said, we’re friends. And we haven’t seen each other in a long time.” She raised an eyebrow. “I may not care about it--or at least I didn’t, until recently--but I do hear some of the court gossip when I visit the college. The noble students, they bring it with them, you know. And one of the stories is how the Earl of Rithia and his wife are scrambling to find eligible matches for their son.” I felt suddenly dizzy for no reason, and a hot flush--disturbingly like the jealous feeling I had experienced at the inn--rushed through me. “Matches?” I repeated. “Girls, young women, marriageable prospects. Strange, how suddenly they started. Right after the princess came back, it’s been noted. As if they had had hope for another match before, and it was ruined.” “Me?” I asked. “People think Kiernan’s parents wanted him to marry me? That’s…ridiculous. Princesses don’t marry earls--a duke, maybe, but not an earl, not unless he’s foreign and brings some grand alliance. And besides, we’re just--” “Friends,” Philantha finished. “I know. That’s what you keep saying.” She eyed me, before saying, “They haven’t had much luck, though, from the gossip. He’s polite to everyone they trot out, but nothing more. But that’s neither here nor there, since you don’t love him.” I glared at her, my face and chest still filled with that rush of heat. “In fact, he’s made you angry, hasn’t he?” “He did. Well, I said…Yes, we fought. He says that Na--the princess--wants to see me. And I told him that he couldn’t bring her to me, that I didn’t want to see her. He said that if she asked, he would have to. But he’s wormed his way out of stickier situations than that. He could find a way to avoid it, if he wanted to.” “Then perhaps he doesn’t want to,” Philantha answered before gliding away up the stairs and out of sight. I had plenty of time to mull over Philantha’s words, because I didn’t see Kiernan for the next three days. It was the longest we had been parted since I returned to the city, and even through my anger at him it drove me to distraction. I mangled my spells even worse than usual, spilled ink, and tripped so frequently that Philantha threatened to call Kiernan to the house herself and turn him into a sparrow if we didn’t make up. Her eyes glinted dangerously when she said it, and only that was enough to force away a bit of my muddleheadedness.

Variations on a Summer Day" I Say of the gulls that they are flying In light blue air over dark blue sea. II A music more than a breath, but less Than the wind, sub-music like sub-speech, A repetition of unconscious things, Letters of rock and water, words Of the visible elements and of ours. III The rocks of the cliffs are the heads of dogs That turn into fishes and leap Into the sea. IV Star over Monhegan, Atlantic star, Lantern without a bearer, you drift, You, too, are drifting, in spite of your course; Unless in the darkness, brightly-crowned You are the will, if there is a will, Or the portent of a will that was, One of the portents of the will that was. V The leaves of the sea are shaken and shaken. There was a tree that was a father. We sat beneath it and sang our songs. VI It is cold to be forever young, To come to tragic shores and flow, In sapphire, round the sun-bleached stones, Being, for old men, time of their time. VII One sparrow is worth a thousand gulls, When it sings. The gull sits on chimney-tops. He mocks the guineas, challenges The crow, inciting various modes. The sparrow requites one, without intent. VIII An exercise in viewing the world. On the motive! But one looks at the sea As one improvises, on the piano. IX This cloudy world, by aid of land and sea, Night and day, wind and quiet, produces More nights, more days, more clouds, more worlds. X To change nature, not merely to change ideas, To escape from the body, so to feel Those feelings that the body balks, The feelings of the natures round us here: As a boat feels when it cuts blue water. XI Now, the timothy at Pemaquid That rolled in heat is silver-tipped And cold. The moon follows the sun like a French Translation of a Russian poet. XII Everywhere the spruce trees bury soldiers: Hugh March, a sergeant, a redcoat, killed, With his men, beyond the barbican. Everywhere spruce trees bury spruce trees. XIII Cover the sea with the sand rose. Fill The sky with the radiantiana Of spray. Let all the salt be gone. XIV Words add to the senses. The words for the dazzle Of mica, the dithering of grass, The Arachne integument of dead trees, Are the eye grown larger, more intense. XV The last island and its inhabitant, The two alike, distinguish blues, Until the difference between air And sea exists by grace alone, In objects, as white this, white that. XVI Round and round goes the bell of the water And round and round goes the water itself And that which is the pitch of its motion, The bell of its dome, the patron of sound. XVII Pass through the door and through the walls, Those bearing balsam, its field fragrance, Pine-figures bringing sleep to sleep. XVIII Low tide, flat water, sultry sun. One observes profoundest shadows rolling. Damariscotta dada doo. XIX One boy swims under a tub, one sits On top. Hurroo, the man-boat comes, In a man-makenesse, neater than Naples. XX You could almost see the brass on her gleaming, Not quite. The mist was to light what red Is to fire. And her mainmast tapered to nothing, Without teetering a millimeter's measure. The beads on her rails seemed to grasp at transparence. It was not yet the hour to be dauntlessly leaping.

Tonight she'll be with Jeremy, her lieutenant, but she wants to be with Roger. Except that, really, she doesn't. Does she? She can't remember being so confused. When she is with Roger it's all love, but at any distance- any at all, Jack- she finds that he depresses and even frightens her. Why? On top of him in the wild nights riding up and down his cock her axis, trying herself to stay rigid enough not to turn to cream taper-wax and fall away melting to the coverlet coming there's only room for Roger, Roger, oh love to the end of breath. But out of bed, walking talking, his bitterness, his darkness, run deeper than the War, the winter: he hates England so, hates "the System," gripes endlessly, says he'll emigrate when the War's over, stays inside his paper cynic's cave hating himself... and does she want to bring him out, really? Isn't it safer with Jeremy? She tried not to allow this question to often, but it's there. Three years with Jeremy. They might as well be married. Three years ought to count for something. Daily, small stitches and easings. She's worn old Beaver's bathrobes, brewed his tea and coffee, sought his eye across lorry-parks, day rooms and rainy mud fields when all the day's mean, dismal losses could be rescued in the one look- familiar, full of trust, in a season where the word is invoked for quaintness or a minor laugh. And to rip it all out? three years? for this erratic, self-centered- boy, really. Weepers, he supposed to be past thirty, he's years older than she. He ought to've learned something, surely? A man of experience? /// If the rockets don't get her there's still her lieutenant. Damned Beaver/Jeremy IS the War, he is every assertion the fucking War has ever made- that we are meant work and government, for austerity: and these shall take priority over love, dreams, the spirit, the senses and the second-class trivia that are found among the idle and mindless hours of the day... Damn them, they are wrong. They are insane. Jeremy will take her like the Angel itself, in his joyless weasel-worded come-along, and Roger will be forgotten, an amusing maniac, but with no place in the rationalized power-ritual that will be the coming peace. She will take her husband's orders, she will become a domestic bureaucrat, a junior partner, and remember Roger, if at all, as a mistake thank God she did not make... Oh, he feels a raving fit coming on- how the bloody hell can he survive without her? She is the British warm that protects his stooping shoulders, and the wintering sparrow he holds inside his hands. She is his deepest innocence in spaces of bough and hay before wishes were given a separate name to warn they might not come true, and his lithe Parisian daughter of joy, beneath the eternal mirror, forswearing perfumes, capeskins to the armpits, all that is too easy, for his impoverishment and more worthy love. /// Jessica steps away from Roger to blow her nose. The sound is as familiar to him as a bird's song, ip-ip-ip-ip NGUNNGG as the hankerchief comes away..."Oh sooper dooper," she says, "think I'm catching a cold." You're catching the War. It's infecting you and I don't know how to keep it away. Oh, Jess. Jessica. Don't leave me....

Tonight she'll be with Jeremy, her lieutenant, but she wants to be with Roger. Except that, really, she doesn't. Does she? She can't remember being so confused. When she is with Roger it's all love, but at any distance- any at all, Jack- she finds that he depresses and even frightens her. Why? On top of him in the wild nights riding up and down his cock her axis, trying herself to stay rigid enough not to turn to cream taper-wax and fall away melting to the coverlet coming there's only room for Roger, Roger, oh love to the end of breath. But out of bed, walking talking, his bitterness, his darkness, run deeper than the War, the winter: he hates England so, hates "the System," gripes endlessly, says he'll emigrate when the War's over, stays inside his paper cynic's cave hating himself... and does she want to bring him out, really? Isn't it safer with Jeremy? She tried not to allow this question to often, but it's there. Three years with Jeremy. They might as well be married. Three years ought to count for something. Daily, small stitches and easings. She's worn old Beaver's bathrobes, brewed his tea and coffee, sought his eye across lorry-parks, day rooms and rainy mud fields when all the day's mean, dismal losses could be rescued in the one look- familiar, full of trust, in a season where the word is invoked for quaintness or a minor laugh. And to rip it all out? three years? for this erratic, self-centered- boy, really. Weepers, he supposed to be pas thirty, he's years older than she. He ought to've learned something, surely? A man of experience? /// If the rockets don't get her there's still her lieutenant. Damned Beaver/Jeremy IS the War, he is every assertion the fucking War has ever made- that we are meant work and government, for austerity: and these shall take priority over love, dreams, the spirit, the sense and the second-class trivia that are found among the idle and mindless hours of the day... Damn them, they are wrong. They are insane. Jeremy will take her like the Angel itself, in his joyless weasel-worded come-along, and Roger will be forgotten, an amusing maniac, but with no place in the rationalized power-ritual that will be the coming peace. She will take her husband's orders, she will become a domestic bureaucrat, a junior partner, and remember Roger, if at all, as a mistake thank God she did not make... Oh, he feels a raving fit coming on- how the bloody hell can he survive without her? She is the British warm that protects his stooping shoulders, and the wintering sparrow he holds inside his hands. She is his deepest innocence in spaces of bough and hay before wishes were given a separate name to warn they might not come true, and his lithe Parisian daughter of joy, beneath the eternal mirror, forswearing perfumes, capeskins to the armpits, all that is too easy, for his impoverishment and more worthy love. /// Jessica steps away from Roger to blow her nose. The sound is as familiar to him as a bird's song, ip-ip-ip-ip NGUNNGG as the hankerchief comes away..."Oh sooper dooper," she says, "think I'm catching a cold." You're catching the War. It's infecting you and I don't know how to keep it away. Oh, Jess. Jessica. Don't leave me,,,,

Swift Antelope caught Hunter’s arm before he could go inside his mother’s lodge. “Hunter, about the little yellow-hair.” “Yes, what about her?” Swift Antelope glanced uneasily at Bright Star, then plunged ahead. “I would like to make arrangements with you--to take her as my wife. Not right away, of course. When she grows old enough.” The young warrior straightened his shoulders. “I will pay a fine bride price, fifty horses and ten blankets.” Hunter smothered a grin. After a year of raiding, Swift Antelope had only ten horses. How much horse stealing did he plan to do? “Swift Antelope, I don’t think she even likes you.” “Your yellow-hair doesn’t like you too well, either.” He had a point. Hunter stroked his chin, acutely aware of a sparrow singing nearby, of cottonwood leaves rustling in the gentle breeze. Such a peaceful sound. He had enough problems without Swift Antelope adding to them. “Can we discuss this another time?” “No! I mean…well, I’ve heard some other warriors talking. I’m not the only one who wants her. If I wait, you may accept the suit of another. She is very fine, is she not?” Hunter wondered if they were talking about the same skinny girl. Then he focused on Swift Antelope, who was only a few years Amy’s senior. He supposed a younger man might find Amy’s coltish prettiness appealing. “I can see your concern. But you forget one thing, Swift Antelope. You have proven yourself my loyal friend. I will not accept the suit of another. Does that ease your mind?” Swift Antelope still gripped Hunter’s arm. “May I visit with her?” “I don’t know about that. She’s been through a terrible time. Having a young man around might upset her.” “Old Man told me what happened to her. But someone must help her walk back to the sunshine, eh?” Again, Hunter had to concede the point. A difficult path lay ahead of Amy, and her way would be made easier if she had a good friend, a young man who could teach her to trust again. “You will take great care with her?” Swift Antelope grinned. “I will protect her with my life. Your mother says she will be strong enough to go on a walk tomorrow. May I take her?” Hunter placed a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder. “She won’t want to go. You do realize that?” Swift Antelope nodded. “I can handle her until she gets used to me.” “She’s a fighter.” “And I am twice her size.” Hunter almost wished he could go on this walk. It might prove interesting. Little did Swift Antelope know how useless strength could be when tussling with a frightened female. “Come to my lodge late tomorrow afternoon.” Swift Antelope beamed. “I think we should change her name. Aye-mee? It sounds like a sheep baaing. Golden One. That is a good name for her.

ANTONY REMEMBERED Val’s kids being taken away, one after the other. Mikey, Barry, Lily. Lily was the last to go. She was only a few years older than Antony, but when he screwed his eyes up tight and tried to remember her face, he couldn’t. He remembered the nickname she’d given him though: Spug. Because he loved birds so much. Her scratchy voice, full of wires and string. Her screams before she started to fit, that cacophony of vowels and white noise. Little Spuggy. Sparrow boy. Lily. Feral fitting girl. The pissy smell of her. He remembered how terrifying it was seeing her hurly-burly. That unmistakeable sound, a liquid hollow sound, of a human skull hitting the concrete. Her body churning, shambling, gyrating – how life would take a sudden detour. Like there was some enormous struggle going on inside her body and she always lost the fight. She didn’t have epilepsy; it had her. — Little Spug. The day she was taken away. The jealousy he felt. Lily had escaped.

In Response to a Question: ”What Does the Earth Say?” The earth says have a place, be what that place requires; hear the sound the birds imply and see as deep as ridges go behind each other. (Some people call their scenery flat, their only pictures framed by what they know: I think around them rise a riches and a loss too equal for their chart - but absolutely tall.) The earth says every summer have a ranch that’s minimum: one tree, one well, a landscape that proclaims a universe - sermon of the hills, hallelujah mountain, highway guided by the way the world is tilted, reduplication of mirage, flat evening: a kind of ritual for the wavering. The earth says where you live wear the kind of color that your life is (grey shirt for me) and by listening with the same bowed head that sings draw all things into one song, join the sparrow on the lawn, and row that easy way, the rage without met by the wings within that guide you anywhere the wind blows. Listening, I think that’s what the earth says.

I was going to yell my lungs out when I got to her for pulling this kind of shit. Once I got to the location, I called her number again and again, trying to reach her. I called maybe thirty times before I heard the faint sound of a ringtone and found her cell in a dumpster among cardboard, junk food leftovers and cigarette butts. Desperation and distress coursed through my veins. I kicked the dumpster so hard, I left a dent. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I yelled, not caring about people around me watching my very public meltdown. She hadn’t run away. Wouldn’t run away. I knew my lovebird—she was the fighting kind. The only running she’d ever do was to get her cardio fix. No, this was not her trying to break free. This was him trying to get even. It was the moment I realized that, for the first time, Brock was one step ahead of me.

Were you sure about me? Did you know my response before you asked?” “I wasn’t sure; I held my breath when I started talking to you about working together. I thought I knew—hoped I knew—what your response would be.” Nate started shuffling the papers on the table. “Then things became complicated …” Time to shut up. Jesus. Her toes started wiggling again. “And the other,” said Dominika, “was that part of the operation, my recruitment?” Nate’s upper lip was a little wet, and the papers were sticking to his hands. “What do you mean ‘the other’?” said Nate. “What do you suppose I mean?” said Dominika. “When we made love.” “What do you think, Domi?” said Nate. “Do you remember what I said to you in Estonia before you crossed the bridge back to Russia? I said—” “You said we didn’t have time for you to tell me you are sorry for what you said to me, no time to tell me what I meant to you as a woman, as a lover, as a partner, no time to tell me how much you will miss me.” Silence and the sound of a car horn on the street below. Dominika looked down at her hands in her lap. “Have I remembered correctly?” she said softly. “How lucky for us, on the eve of our meeting with Jamshidi, that your well-known memory hasn’t failed you,” said Nate. He stopped gathering the papers and looked into her eyes. “I meant what I said.” Her mouth twitched, suppressing a smile, or perhaps some other emotion. “Well, it is good to be working together again,” she said quickly. The bubble popped; they both knew it. It was the only way.

Sparrow always loved insects. Mamma sometimes said that Sparrow was only interested in living things as long as they had six legs or more. Mamma never sounded entirely happy about that.

So this is how it would always be thought Daniel, this rush of painful sounds and images pouring through you, whether it was the fate of the sparrow, the chick swept by dust from the streets and calling for its mother, or anyone tiny and young in this distressed universe that laid claim to Daniel’s heart and even his failing breath, his futile, seemingly infinite patience in the face of suffering, no matter how small the creature that struggled, even in this airport they had just closed, nothing flying in or out till who knows when, yet Daniel, a man of his time, was accustomed to this, a lightweight in the balance of things he thought, even if it all seemed so ponderous to him,

Sparrows were an interesting bird. They had dialects unique to each region they inhabited. If Waterton had a sound, it was the lonely sparrow, keening for its mate. The trill was peaceful, but melancholy.

The angel was sitting by his bed when Simon Iddesleigh, sixth Viscount Iddesleigh, opened his eyes. He would've thought it a terrible dream, one of an endless succession that haunted him nightly -- or worse, that he'd not survived the beating and had made that final infinite plunge out of this world and into the flaming next. But he was almost certain hell did not smell of lavender and starch, did not feel like worn linen and down pillows, did not sound with the chirping of sparrows and the rustle of gauze curtains. And, of course, there were no angels in hell.

The Sudden Light and the Trees" My neighbor was a biker, a pusher, a dog and wife beater. In bad dreams I killed him and once, in the consequential light of day, I called the Humane Society about Blue, his dog. They took her away and I readied myself, a baseball bat inside my door. That night I hear his wife scream and I couldn't help it, that pathetic relief; her again, not me. It would be years before I'd understand why victims cling and forgive. I plugged in the Sleep-Sound and it crashed like the ocean all the way to sleep. One afternoon I found him on the stoop, a pistol in his hand, waiting, he said, for me. A sparrow had gotten in to our common basement. Could he have permission to shoot it? The bullets, he explained, might go through the floor. I said I'd catch it, wait, give me a few minutes and, clear-eyed, brilliantly afraid, I trapped it with a pillow. I remember how it felt when I got my hand, and how it burst that hand open when I took it outside, a strength that must have come out of hopelessness and the sudden light and the trees. And I remember the way he slapped the gun against his open palm, kept slapping it, and wouldn't speak. .

As Faith took the life of the sparrow, Keeper threw back his head and howled, overcome by loss, as if Faith had been stolen from him once again. The sound sent shivers along her spine but she didn’t stop. Her blood was on fire. When she opened her eyes the bird was lifeless in the palm of her hand, and Keeper was gone. He was done with her. She was not the person that he had been attached to, the one he’d come to of his own accord, for a familiar can never be called, he must make his own choice, and Keeper had made the choice to leave her. Faith wrapped the bird in a bit of flannel cloth and placed it in the basket of herbs, then went to search for Keeper. There were muddy footprints that led past the lake where she had fed handfuls of bread to a huge eel, but when she searched the cliffs and caves, Keeper was nowhere to be found. Faith cried out for him, she whistled and clapped her hands; still there was no sign of the wolf. Her most loyal friend had deserted her, and for good reason. She was not the girl he knew. It is easy to become what your actions have made of you.