On the corner sat the little carver girl. She sat. and waited. And watched. She wished for something to happen. Something to change. Something to be born, to fade away. Something she could put to wood. She wished for something to make beautiful.
She stood. And spoke. Sometimes to herself, sometimes to no one in particular. She daydreamed. Watching dragons slither through her mind,, she thought. And went to work. Shaping wood into curves, it splintered. So she thought again. By mistake, she took the top off her gnome, the leg off her pegasus, cut a deep gash in her pixie.
She tried. Again and again. Nothing worked. Blisters, cuts, and rashes from the wood formed on her palms and fingers. She cried. She felt clouds hanging over her, taking away the sunshine. Sadness abounded. Until finally, a beam of light penetrated her murky skies.
An old man. A baby bird. The setting sun. The little carver girl’s happiness. That’s what happened.
One evening, with the sun sinking low and basking the town in golden light, an old man appeared.An old man and his birds. An egg hatched. A bird was born into the light. The man, in his joy, cupped the baby in his palms, and held the bird up, up, in the air. The tiny one held his head up high, spreading his wings for the very first time.
This moment, of such importance for the bird and the man, was also key for the carver girl’s pleasure. She instantly went to work. When at last her sore hands held the sort of sculpture she had longed so much for, she could not help but cry out with joy.
“Alas!” She spoke, close to tears.
Then, a young, sour-faced man walked by.
“Why,” He inquired sharply,” do you care so strongly for a piece of useless woodwork like that?”
“Do you not understand?”she replied with amusement,”I wish only to make something beautiful. Is that too much to ask?”
The man scowled.
He left her dancing in the street, holding her beautiful sculpture of an old man holding up a bird with its wings fully spread. And then the little carver girl’s laughter rung through the night.