It will hardly shock anyone for me to admit that I didn't post the above photo for its artistic merit. Some photos are simply record shots. They denote an event for whatever it's worth.
This one simply reveals (well, if you squint studiously, it might reveal) three little sparrows on our lawn. I'm pretty darn sure, by both their number and their in-flight wobbliness, that they are none other than our very own grandbirds. They are learning to fly and to forage for themselves, which must be of mighty relief to their overworked but doughty parents.
Me? I already miss the little blighters. Out of habit, I keep casting my glance to the birdhouse, but it stands empty and chirpless.
It reminds me, although I barely require it at this stage, that life moves constantly and inexorably onward. We all begin our existence microscopically before breathing independently and finally gasping our last. Their spans are much shorter than ours, but just as they live one hundred percent of their lives, so do and so must we.