By Geraldine Rauscher
A hiker walked passed a certain trail in a forest every week.
One day he saw, laying on the floor, a pile of sticks. There were five sticks in all, each one smaller than the next. Instictively he crouched down and picked up the sticks. He stuck them in the dirt, in a straight line, in descending order.
He got up, looked at his line of sticks for a second, satisfied at his creation he continued his walk. Every week he would pass by his sticks.
One day as he was passing by his sticks he noticed they were in a different order. Someone had come along and rearranged the sticks.
There was a slight sadness that over came him. He removed the sticks from the ground and held them in his palm for a few seconds and with a sudden smile he flung the sticks into the air.
The hiker watched as the sticks landed and became lost amongst the many sticks on the forest grounds. “Just sticks…” he whispered to himself and continued his hike.
The Bird With No Wings 