the finch in the flowers

flew away before I could film him.
I had to go inside to get the camera, and in doing so, was forced to know (as it was Bob's intention to tell me) that there was a car full of bombs found in London's theatre district.
When I came back out into the yard, and the finch was gone, I couldn't properly feel my disappointment,
my head filled as it was, with gratitude for what didn't happen today.
And thoughts and fears, of a mixed future.
I like my days small, my concerns and disappointments akin to whether or not I manage to capture a small yellow bird on film, while it is feeding among the yellow flowers.
Not with harsher realities that invade, threatening both the course of my external future and my internal one.
But something in the internal must be eternal,
for if the future would erupt in bombs,
I must always be able to find solace,
with the finch in the flowers.