The man had green eyes like the grass under his feet. Or were they blue like the skies stretching across the horizon? Perhaps he had one of both. Curiosity filled him to the brim, clutched his feet and ripped through his ribcage like poison. His legs carried him farther than any man had ever walked before, and the air felt thinner, cleaner, lighter than bricks (but that isn’t light at all, is it? He also didn't care to make much sense of anything.) Curiously, curiously, he held the leaves of a tree in the spaces between his fingers.
    Yes, the man decided, this was the place he would call his home. He had found sleep come so easily that night, so beautifully calm and serene, and his eyelids fell heavy against his face. His breaths were small puffs of cold air, for it was just barely autumn. The leaves would agree, falling over each other like waves in the ocean, falling burgundy, falling sunset-orange, falling onto his cheek. 
    He awoke on a Wednesday; the sun had roused him. It streamed softly through the branches over his head. The nameless man, the faceless man, hardly moved though he gazed. His eyes found much more pleasure in the acres and acres of green, green grass than his body found pleasure moving. 
    Then, he noticed them: the birds. Oh, marvelous, magnificent they were. They were the high kings and queens of the land he had stumbled across so gracelessly. An arm reached up-- but he daren't disturb them. The man held his breath in fear he would breathe an inch too far and knock an angel from its flight. He would end up watching them for two years more, straight through, restless, attention unceasing, eyes drinking them in like his father used to drink wine. Wings beating like drums, birds singing like a children's choir, the birds were intoxicating. It was after these two years that the man decided to stay forever.
    He would need a home. 
    The man stood and straightened his crooked back. He scratched under the thin hair over his chin and took a step away from the tree. He could hear the birds chirping as the distance grew greater and greater. He daren't look back. He knew if he looked back he would be tempted to fall asleep by the tree once more. He wandered over the side of the horizon to a place where he found a fallen tree. 
    The man flexed his muscles and clenched his teeth, grabbing the trunk of the tree and hauling it away from the stump. His legs burned with each step and the air around him moved against him. He would take the dead bark and fashion it into lumber. Sweat fell from his brow and he fell to rest against the trunk of the tree. He fell asleep, and woke on a Thursday.
    The lumber was soon ready, and he tied it together with tweed. His eyes were wide and tired as he closed them for a moment more and then they opened. The man hauled the wood over his shoulder and started the trek towards the tree and beautific birds. He grunted in effort and dug his heels into the ground. When night came, the man dropped to his knees, not yet to the place where he would build his home. He collapsed of fatigue. 
    Consciousness gripped him by the neck and shook him. He blinked drowsily. He would eat when he was home, he decided, and climbed to his feet. Onto his shoulder went the lumber, and onwards went the man. His heart shook in shackles, in its prison, in its cage, but the dream and desire of having a true home kept him going. By the next nightfall, he saw the golden glow of the sun. 
    The man heaved a sigh of relief that he had finally reached the lovely pasture of his journey. He dropped the wood, his tired, splintered fingers unable to hold it any longer.  He stretched his fingers out in front of his face; they were red and skinned. He held them against the fabric of his trousers; they felt much too warm. The man with eyes like the sky or eyes like the grass slung his head back, hands on his hips, grin stretching across his face. He untied the wood and set out the pieces only to realize that the birds were no where to be seen.
    The man stepped away from the lumber, eyes narrowed in confusion, and he stepped away from the tree. He looked left, and he looked right; he looked up, and he even tried looking down. The man circled around the tree and felt his smile fall. Where were the angels he had come for? Yes, the tree was lovely, and the air was clear. The sky held him in a warm embrace and the blades of grass kissed his bare feet-- but, oh, how wrong it felt without the birds. 
    The man sat down, head tucked away under his arm. He sighed to himself and pursed his lips. The fields were quiet. Oh so disgustingly quiet. The man yearned for the music of the birds, but the birds were not around, not in the sky, not in the branches, not in the distance-- the man could see not even a nest. So he fell asleep, drowned in his sorrows. It was something he did often, falling asleep. 
    Waking did not feel like waking at all to the man. It felt as if he were waking as stone. The man licked his chapped lips and clenched his fists. He did not dare get angry, though he felt like he wanted to, he surpressed it. He mourned the loss of the birds. 
    "Oh," the man said aloud to himself, eyes opening in enlightenment. 
    He could not find the birds, so he must make the birds find him. The man smiled a thin, plastic smile and stood up on his aching knees. He spread seeds around the tree, he left trails for miles around, stopping for no breaks. His eyelids drooped lower and he felt sleep beckoning, but he pushed on. It was two days later that he dropped the bag of birdseed and fell. His arms just barely caught him, and he called out in a yelp of pain before his arms gave way and sand dusted his eyelashes and climbed onto his lips. 
    Sleep stole him away.
    Monday. It was Monday when he next saw the light of day. The man's body ached all over, and his arms and back were red by the wrath of the sun; he rolled over onto his back and groaned. His eyes opened, crusted and weary, but they opened. He blinked four times, slowly and delibrately. 
    He forced himself to sit up and ignored the sound of his muscles screaming in protest. He was so far away that he could not see his beautiful tree. Birdseed littered his body. He thought, surely, after all this work, the birds would come back, but that was not the case. The man wandered back sluggishly and gazed with forlorn eyes upon the empty skies. 
    "So be it," the man declared. He clenched his teeth and clenched his fists and clenched his heart that had given up like a flower crushed under harsh rainfall. 
    The man took the lumber in one hand and nails in the other, and with these, he began to build his home. His chest felt heavy and each movement took years, so many years , in fact, that his home was not finished for another seventeen when he was older and gray, when his breath was thinner than the air he once loved for being so clear. His mind was foggy, not the least bit clear like he had always loved. 
    The man sighed softly, but his eyes were tender. He stepped back, his knuckles white as he held tightly onto a walking stick he had started to use four years back. He was only just over sixty, though he felt older. The skies were empty and soundless behind him. 
    It was Sunday.
    The man took a step back to admire his home, finished and standing proud. He dropped the hammer, feeling fatigue calling him through the open door of the house. The home was unfurnished; there was nothing but grass and dirt under his feet. Each step felt heavier as if he were walking down a stairwell, and perhaps he was. The man had more difficulty than he used to lying upon the grass. Perhaps he should have found something more comfortable. A pile of those autumn leaves. 
    His eyes closed. They felt like weights. And just as he felt the last bit of consciousness seep out of his bones, he heard a soft chord.