The Sparrow

The sparrow cocked its head to get a better look at the dirt.
"No worms." He thought.
He overturned the brown, crunchy leaves on this cool winter day, and gulped down a wriggling little strip of flesh.
His companions poked and prodded out on the grass.
"Silly," He thought. "Don't they know that worms hide in the gardens?"
He cocked his head and saw another worm writhing in the moist dirt, only vaguely aware of its impending doom. His other eye held a view of the canopy of looming, deep green leaves from the plants in the garden. He had this advantage. He could focus on his meal, and on any potential predators that might sneak up on him.
His flock was out on the grass, in the open, feeding and, every now and then, surveying their surroundings, dirt clinging to their beaks. Pretty soon, he was all alone; his flock had left the ground and was perching on trees somewhere. He paused, looked about him, and then continued to search for worms. There was a light tip-tapping to his left; it was a woodpecker. The sparrow was in awe of the woodpecker's manner of finding food. Why couldn't he do that? His beak was as strong as the woodpecker's, wasn't it? He would have to try it sometime, he thought to himself, but right now, he had to leave the ground. There was a strange sound coming from his right.
With extremely quick wings, he lifted himself off of the soft dirt and joined his friends on an old tree that had a few brown leaves still clinging to it.
Winter had not been too cold. Spring, thought the sparrow, would be nice. If the wind kept up - and it usually does.
The sparrow closed its eyes and - had he the face muscles for it - would have smiled, contentedly. He slowly drifted off to that very aware slumber of birds. Throughout his sleep, the sounds of passing vehicles and rustling leaves and the sighing wind pervaded his being.
This would be a good year.
If all went well.
This would be a good year.