Sang Praise Of Maxwell

Maxwell replaced the water in the birdbath and put new seed in the feeder. The garden smelled like night blooming jasmine and the moon was a scythe hanging over his head. The birds were all off somewhere silently sleeping. He took in his bedroom light and the purple, plumbed heavens behind his simple A-frame home and a sentimental ping pierced his heart. All over the world he pictured simple scenes like this and it helped him feel connected. He wanted to stay in the garden longer but his bones shivered in the cold night air and the warmth of his bed called to him like a burning hearth.

He went back inside and fell asleep with the TV buzzing in the background. In the morning he rose, opened his blinds and looked out of the window. The sparrows were chirping in the yard and flapping their wings joyfully.

“You’ve come home, my children. Now eat and by merry.”

Maxwell descended the stairs and started a pot of coffee in the kitchen. The sky was gentle and blue and exhausting in its perfection. He turned on the radio to an oldies station and some song he remembered as a teenager filled the air and gently carried him out of his kitchen back to the dance floors of his youth. He remembered picking Sarah up in his Chevrolet Clipper that he bought for $900 and the dress she wore was a lime green color. He remembered smelling her perfume as they danced. Something beeped and Maxwell was startled back to the present by the steaming pot of coffee sitting on his counter top, his reverie cut tragically short by the convenience of the modern world.

“Time is a nasty bugger to keep up with,” he commented to the ghosts. The sparrows sitting out on the bough of an oak tree fluttered their wings and shook their tiny legs, by working together they were able to make the branch bounce up and down. Maxwell witnessed the display of excitement and tapped on the window. “You guys behave.”

He sat down at the table and sipped his coffee, admiring the bend of the trees and the dappled, early light that sneaked through the foliage. There was still dew on the leaves so they sparkled in the slanted sun rays touching the Earth. It was a dazzling display, Maxwell thought, the way the morning sun casts such a soft light upon the world it makes everything seem fresh and harmless.

Why must the afternoon come when morning is this peaceful? Why can’t we hold on to the things we find dear? Why is it that time always has to keep moving? He brooded over cobwebs, listening to songs from years ago mosey out of the radio speakers, feeling caught in another person’s body — like we all do when we realize just how much life we’ve lived.

The grass in the yard needed cutting. There are three withered rose bushes that need to be removed. Maxwell gazed upon the land where he spread his wife’s ashes, reflecting on a long life. There is no other place more holy to him. It is his kingdom. He stood up and went over to the window with his cup of coffee and looked out upon the garden and the twittering sparrows. “You guys have no worries as long as I’m around,” he announced. “You don’t know how lucky you have it.”

Outside the lawnmower slept peacefully in the tool shed and an airplane floated 30,000 feet overhead, the lightheaded passengers pulled forward through the thin oxygen. Invisible radio waves stretched across the sky like muscles in an arm. Time kept going. The breeze made the shimmering leaves shake like castanets and tossed pollen into the air. It moved the air around and wasted thousands of dandelion wishes. Spirits played in the ephemeral gossamer. The Earth hummed along indifferently as the sparrows sang praise of Maxwell.

The Earth hummed along indifferently.

Time kept going.

The sparrows sang praise of Maxwell.