Years passed, and generations of bluebirds lived in the mountains and knew the old man. Two or three would gather in the fields about him whenever he went out. Sometimes in the forests of the canyons, he could hear them. But they did not approach him there. When he emerged with firewood, they would greet him.
The old man grew older. He became stiff in the muscles about his bones and had to hire someone to cut wood. Then he had to hire someone to chop it. Many bluebirds had passed through his life, and they came and sat on his porch. He spoke to them in his guttural tones, and there was never a rude word.
When the old man finally passed away, he was buried on his property as he had requested. The property stood abandoned for many years. It was a place for the nesting of bluebirds.
Copyright 2014 George Lowell Tollefson