a tale of birds

A-woosh went the wind in the trees and all the covered heads looked up.  The birds held tight and weren't blown off, but some feathers made slinky trails to the dirt below.  One of them landed near the worn shoes of the weaver woman as she trudged through the trees with her bundle of reeds.  She didn't notice the feather, but soon she began to notice that she wasn't alone in the woods; voices were in the wind, getting louder and clearer.  She looked around, but spied no-one, no clothing catching the beams of sunlight, no footsteps crushing twigs on the forest floor.  She stood awhile, listening, wondering if it was the Time of Spirits already.  But could the year go so fast?  They hadn't even begun to harvest.  She cocked her head and listened as closely as her old ears would allow.  The voices were in the air alright, drifting down from above.  But there was nothing to be seen in the branches but...the birds.  Could it be?  The weaver woman tried to pay more attention to make sure.

"I tell you it's true," chirped a sparrow, "I saw the army preparing myself.  The horses are dressed and the banners are hung."

"But after so many quiet years?  Why stir themselves now?  I thought the blanketed ones would stay in the balance they have reached.  Everything is better for everyone on a balance."

"You forget," chirred a dove, "The blanketed do not seek balance as others do.  In fact, they may even seek to destroy it where it exists."

"You tell a tale," huffed the sparrow, "No-one in there right minds seeks to destroy a balance, only create and make steady."

"I tell no tale," retorted the dove, "And I think you know nothing of the blanketed.  All my kin tell me how they cause trouble every number of seasons."

A tiny wren piped up, "Yes, not all of them seem to believe in the balance.  I hear many complaints in the fields.  The field blanketed feel unfairly used.  They plot and mutter.  They fill the white blanketed with fear."

"What complaints should they have?" asked the sparrow, "If they are not for the task, they can leave it.  It is what we all do."

"Indeed, you know the blanketed little," nodded the dove sagely, "They are not like us.  They have many complicated rituals to fill their lives.  These rituals must be done continuously even when none of their number wants to do them.  Their flock would be otherwise extinguished."

"Perhaps better for us all that it were," muttered the sparrow, hopping on the branch in agitation.

"My opinion of the blanketed ones is somewhat warmer than yours, I think," spoke a crow, in a surprisingly smooth voice, "I and my kin benefit greatly from their labor and inattention.  Still, when they fight, it goes no worse for me when all is said and done, nor for our cousins, the bald ones."

"Blech!  Don't mention those stinkers to me!" warbled the dove haughtily.  The impending fight was interrupted by a bird of bright red feather, who was rarely seen in that forest.  It landed clumsily on the branch near the crow and the others stared at it with curiosity.

"How goes, cousins," the new bird piped out, "I trust you do not mind if I rest a short while.  I may give you just warning of things to come."

"What things do you speak of?" asked the crow, voice now scratchy with suspicion.

"I fly before flames, cousins, my home is burnt.  The blanketed armies have done it to discover their enemies among the trees.  The wolf told us it would be so, and we were ready to take wing for our lives."

"Ah, that trickster.  How did he know of it?"

"I cannot say, but I can guess he had a wing in creating the confrontation.  There were indeed blanketed enemies in our woods.  We heard them talk of justice and freedom.  We heard them name the wolf as they do, calling him 'Uncle'."

"Ha!" spat the crow, "They just would claim a kinship with him!"

"In the woods they shouted to each other," continued the red bird, "Calling words like crime and oppression.  They said the wolf opened their eyes to the unfairness of their lives.  Now they will make right and fair, in spite of any one of their own."

"What's this talk of fair?" grumbled the sparrow, "Only the balance matters.  If it seems unfair, your eyes must deceive you, for the balance does not allow that."

"Now, now," mused the crow, "I have observed them all my life, and I can tell you, sometimes they create a balance where there is none to fool their fellows.  It is an unbalance that eventually tips under its own weight."

"Do they not foresee this?" sniffed the sparrow, ruffling its earthy feathers, "Can they not simply live in balance?  It seems to me their whole existence is spent upsetting it, for themselves and for all others."

"Balance is not happiness, I think," continued the crow, "And you know we are rarely happy, as the blanketed are.  They must require stronger emotion, and in balance, the happiness is countered by unhappiness.  Then they fight."

"I have seen and heard the enemy of the white up close," said the red bird, off-hand, "And I begin to wonder if they do not have some clear sight.  The white ones take from them the largest part of the rewards of their toil, and what's more, they prevent the field blanketed from increasing their own reward.  I see them all unblanketed at the river, cleansing their hides.  They are the same.  They have no marks or signs to designate some fated chore.  There is no balance to their flock, where only a few have unceasing control over the many.  The tipping is inescapable."

"How you go on!" scoffed the sparrow, "The politics of their flock is none of our concern!  Only their destruction."

"Cousins, I believe the time has come for my parting," announced the red bird, stretching flame colored wings and taking off.

"How abrupt," mumbled the dove, staring off after the traveler.

"How absurd," muttered the weaver woman, retaking her walk home.  "What could those feather-brains ever tell us about our own affairs?" And she went on her way, forgetting all about the chatter of the birds, until the soldiers knocked on her door.