background character

There’s a robin at the bottom of the garden. He hops and bops around merrily, without a care in the world. His chirps fill the air as the flutter of his feathery wings echoes between the yard walls. Sat behind my windows, I follow him with my eyes as he goes from the granite birdbath to the wrought iron garden furniture that’s already a little rusty from the rain and the wind. His curious gaze flows towards every corner of the plot, eagerly devouring the new possibilities that await him. The little bird plunges through the thick grass, and comes back up a little further away, over and over again, shrill cries escaping from his sharp beak. Its sunset orange coat clashes against the emerald greens of the lawn. At the end of the plot, a flower bed draws him in, dazzling him with as many colours as the rainbow. His head tilted sideways, I can see it eyeing the golden marigolds and pinkish begonias, the violet lavender branches and the deep blue irises alive with the faint buzz of busy bees. Overwhelmed by the heady perfumes and sweet scents, I watch him stray away on his wobbly and skinny legs, looking for shelter from this exuberance. Fleeing from this explosion of colours, he skips towards me, brushing past the cracked pavement of the narrow path that serpents across the garden, when his gaze is caught by an unknown object: what could this red blot, at the back of the plot, be ?

There’s a robin at the bottom of the garden. I don’t know how long he’s been here; maybe forever ? The scarlet splash is a poppy, the reddest I’ve ever seen, that stands proud and lonely amongst the tall and wild grass. The robin nods his head to the faint sound of guitar notes filling the air with their warm tones from over the wall, but he hasn’t forgotten this new flower. The poppy’s crimson undertones clash with the robin; after all, he always thought he was the reddest of them all. In a flash, he swoops on the delicate flower, snapping his beak at its petals and clawing at its stem. But the poppy won’t go down without a fight. Like the mighty reed, it doesn’t break, towering above the lawn. The robin’s chirps have become desperate and warlike, transforming into roars of epic strength but still, the poppy doesn’t fall. The bird becomes dragon as the flower morphs into tree in a never-ending fight against time, my tiny garden growing into a colossal battlefield worthy of the most heroic struggles. Who will be the victor of this rivals’ spat?

There used to be a robin at the bottom of the garden. A poppy, too. Their envy and their jealousy for each other’s red coats got the best of them in the end. Now, the plot is back to its usual tranquil self, undisturbed, quiet, and dull. The robin’s bright coat and the poppy’s red hues could have coexisted alongside each other. A few feathers float around, hastily lost during the bird’s attack. Next to them, ruby petals fall to the ground, waiting for someone to pick them up, or for the wind to blow them away. Both could have found a spot in the garden, the robin in his tight and bright birdhouse, and the poppy as the ruler of the unruly grass. The lawn may be barely green, and the flowers may hardly survive, they could’ve looked kind of good together, I think. As I gaze upon the azure sky, however, I spot my robin, soaring through the cerulean planes. He loops and jumps and plunges and glides, without a care in the world. His newfound freedom (was it ever lost ?) is exhilarating, and seeing him flap his nimble wings without stopping shakes me to my core. With a twinge of sorrow, I watch him disappear behind a fluffy white cloud as he leaves me, stuck on the heavy ground, wondering what he will see and how far he will go.