birds of a feather

The sparrows are not the most striking birds outside the windows, but they are ever present, and cheerful. Walking to the local shop where I get my morning coffee I say hello to the little brown birds perched in the apple scented sweetbriar. The sparrows nest in the eaves, and chirp, and flutter, and fly through the little fruit trees I have trained up against the wall.
To me birds always look as if they are having a good time, but that's probably because as the child of a pilot I always wanted to fly.
So the other day one of the flocks flew up, and there in the middle of the tan and brown, fluttering with them, wholly part of the little flock, was a pale blue parakeet. I stopped to watch. The birds seem indifferent to the fact that one of them is a bit larger and very much a different color. They flitted together, nibbled seeds, flew up and about, settling, rising, falling, like the waves and swirls of the ocean. A perfect unit.
We should pray for a mild winter, but meanwhile the blue parakeet who wants to be a sparrow seems to be happy indeed.