I was carried by a bird, a flitting little imp of a bird, daring and sure, above the canopy and into a lattice of golden beams.

Clinging to a feather or two, and as tiny as I'd ever been, I squinted against the rush of warm wind, wondering if the flitting little imp and I understood each other. We did, and we silently landed atop an intricately jaded arch, a sculpture carved with fractal repetition and laced with nature's math, flowing majestically into the sky in paisley billows of silvery metal waves and splashes.

A giant eye peered at me, and I'd seen that look before-- it was the eye of Carl, my flying imp transport service, always in a hurry. I gladly hopped down onto the weathered silver deck and finally looked around. A light wind touched my shoulder as Carl flew off with hardly a chirp, leaving me even smaller than before, and quite alone.

How tiny I was! I dared to look into the distance below. I was but a mite, who'd found its way to the top of a lost jeweled ring in the soil, somewhere in the garden of the titans. But indeed, I was a tiny king, who had made his way to the top of an ornate crown amidst colossal ruins-- a towering crown of such great size that no conqueror could dream to lift it from the earth. Who's large world had I crawled onto, and where had they gone?

I am small, and yet I know that I'm endowed with a breath, and by my very breath, I am king. An ant might climb the mightiest blade of grass with the strength of ten men, yet I-- with the breath of one-- sit on the top of an ancient Earth, an entire planet following in my wake.

As king, reigning in a world of infinite variety and size, I might ask, how large must one be, in an infinite expanse, to curl enough life-force into a coherent unit of consciousness?

I ask because I am small, and only tall enough to sniff the lowest of flowers, but being blessed with the nose of a king, the magic of a floral garden is what I breath at breakfast's light, while moonflowers sweeten the nights and my sleep.

There, the sky, and had I ever been so close? Tiny though I may be, can't I reach up and stir the clouds with a finger? How large must one be to command the sky hither, and how tall should a king grow before the palatial fresco of sky can be painted and adorned with stars?

Ah, the questions of a king! As for myself, a king who's entire court consisted of a wise warbler named Carl, I had my chance to ask those questions as he landed with a short clatter next to me. Back too soon, but Carl was a songbird who didn't warble about nothing, and before I could ask him my kingly questions, he was already cheeping something about not wanting to fly after dark.

I assured him that kings don't fear the dark, but I climbed aboard, because Carl assured me that it would take me two days to climb down the ornate arch without his wings to fly me to the ground safely.

"You ready to go back down, your high-ness?" Carl sang sarcastically, and he went on some more about how I wasn't the first one to start sputtering about such royal epiphanies, and as we flitted back down, he chirped, "Don't be hurt... you don't wanna be king anyhow, but if you are a king, you sure don't want to tell anyone about it."

Carl, that flitting little imp of a bird, I've known him a long time. He sure has a way of telling me to shut up.

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yeah so there's that little story, photos above are mine, 2018

thanks for looking in!

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