It was an early dawn in July, with the sun just above the hills and breaking through the treetops to fall scattered on the grass and dirt paths, when a painter of rugged appearance set his easel upon a flat of ground. He wore patched black pants and a white dress shirt underneath a worn vest. Resting upon a straight nose were half circle spectacles from which bright green eyes peered. He had short brown hair and a five o’clock shadow, which he had neglected for a few days. His view stretched out across a field where hundreds of lupines ranging from deep purples to royal blues grew. His steady fingers slowly unscrewed his oil paints, and squeezed them onto his tablet. As chickadees and larks chirped a dirge overhead, the man, also known as Oak, began his morning ritual of enjoyment and work with swift and gentle strokes of his paintbrush.
Later that day, at around noon, he stopped, and smiled at his work. The field reflected back at him, with vibrant purples and blues and soft greens, the sky a golden glow and then developing into a light blue sheet. Satisfied with his work, Oak reached into his bag and pulled out a loaf of bread. He chewed on it thoughtfully, thinking about what he would do tomorrow. He heard that there was a storm coming through, and he hadn’t yet found a place to make shelter. He looked at the sky and could already imagine dreary rain clouds. When he finished his bread, he packed up his paints and easel, and placed his new painting in a plastic bag. Then he left the peaceful yet lonely clearing with chirping birds, and after a bit of walking, emerged onto larger dirt path that bicyclists used. After a bit more of walking, he stepped out onto the street, and everywhere was the sound of expensive cars honking horns, people in nice suits chatting on cell phones, and dogs with studded collars barking behind fences.
Oak struggled through the crowd, keeping his painting protected by hugging it to his chest, until he reached a side alley that was fairly large yet dim and quieter. In this alley were several small shops composed of a tailor, a bookseller, a second hand goods shop, and a very small art gallery. The gallery was named Paints, simply because although it contained creative and imaginative pieces of cheap artwork, the owner of the shop was quite boring, unimaginative, and, although having nothing to do with her boringness, stingy. The owner’s name was Gretta Read, but most people just called her the Ant Lion. She was a shrewd little woman, no taller than four and a half feet, and she dressed much younger than her wrinkled skin suggested. A cloud of smoke seemed to follow her wherever she went, but then again, so did her cigarettes. It was her that Oak was so ill fated to have business with, and on this day, his luck took a turn for the worst as the Ant Lion refused to pay more than ten dollars for his lupine painting.
“It’s an absolute piece of crap,” the Ant Lion spat. “But, since we have a contract, I guess I’ll pay ten dollars for it. I’ll be lucky to sell it for five…”
Oak just sighed and accepted it. About ten years ago, he had made a contract with the Ant Lion’s husband, a nice jolly and rosy-cheeked fellow who had seen beauty in Oak’s paintings. He had offered Oak a contract of business that gave him a monopoly on Oak’s paintings, but gave Oak a hefty slice of profit. However, when the Ant Lion’s husband died, she took over the business and replaced murals with gray wallpaper, and the original name of Painted Skies with just Paints. Unfortunately for Oak, he was still under contract and before he knew it, his paycheck grew dismally smaller, and he was unable to hire a lawyer to sever the contract. He accepted his ten dollars, paid to him in cash, and then left the dreary store and walked out onto the street. All around him, people cloaked in riches surrounded him and were laughing and smiling out of pure bliss. Oak placed a hand to his rumbling stomach, exhaled a pent up sigh of broken dreams, and walked to his bench in the park to daydream the hours away until dawn, when his routine of a bleak life would start again. The birds lamented over his head as the sun set on the horizon, and Oak fell asleep.

The next morning, Oak woke up to rain falling on his face. He sat up from his bench, his back stiff, and gathered his paints and easel. He glanced at the sky with remorse.
“I’ll have to wait out the rain today. No paintings for the Ant Lion to gobble up; but then, that means nothing for my stomach to gobble up either,” he said. He left his bench and started the trek to his rain shelter under the city bridge. Rain dripped down his shirt and soaked his skin and chilled his bones. He shivered as he trudged down the now empty city streets and tried not to think about how his day would go, for fear that he might find himself bursting into tears, swallowed up in his own self-pity. Down the street, a man in a black tuxedo talked on his cell phone while driving his bright red hummer. He noticed the very large and very deep puddle in the middle of the road, and completely oblivious to anyone on the streets and having the confidence that his very large car could plow through the pitiful water, he stepped on the gas and raced through the massive lake, which sent a tidal wave of frigid and sordid water tumbling down on Oak’s body. Of course, this also sent his glasses flying to the ground, and although Oak was concerned with the fact that he was now thoroughly soaked, he was more concerned with the fact that should his glasses break, he would have no money with which to get a new pair, and ultimately, he wouldn’t even be able to paint due to lack of detail.
To his surprise, not only did he find his glasses while mucking through the muddy water, they were perfectly intact and, floating next to them as if waiting for this moment to appear out of the murky water, was a twenty-dollar bill. Delighted at this find, and excited to have a large bill in his hands, Oak decided that it would be best to buy a jacket and perhaps some breakfast with his newfound wealth. He stopped by a thrift store and bought a patched up overcoat that was old but warm and he stopped by the bakery to buy a blueberry muffin.
“How long has it been since I’ve had blueberries?” he thought to himself, as he clambered over the rocks that led to his second “home” under the bridge. He took off his vest and shirt and hung them to dry on a rock, then sat down in the warmth of his new coat, and prepared to chomp into the still warm muffin. It was at this time, right before his teeth sliced through the newly baked treat, that he noticed a small girl, standing just beyond the ledge that protected Oak from the rain. She wore only a large tee shirt that looked like a dress on her, and she shivered in the icy rain. Her large, brown eyes looked up in Oak’s green ones and pleaded for help.
But Oak’s greed held him back a little. “Excuse me,” he asked, “But are you lost?”
The little girl shook her head. “Please, sir, I was only wondering if I might come and join you under your ledge and perhaps spend the night with you in warmth.”
Oak looked down at his muffin, then back at the girl. This would probably be the last meal he would have for a couple days, since he was unable to paint today. His clothes were still wet and cold on the rock beside him, and his jacket was incredibly warm. Oak sighed.
“Here, come over here and sit next to me,” he said.
The little girl came, cautious, and knelt beside him. Oak took off his jacket and placed it over the girl’s shoulders, then handed her his muffin. He stood and put on his still wet shirt and vest, and came back over to sit next to her. Her eyes were lit up in wonder, and she said, “I don’t have anything to give you.”
“It’s fine,” Oak said, clenching his teeth to stop from shivering. The girl looked at him, then said, “My name’s Wren. I walk around and draw with chalk. What’s your name?” She bit into the muffin and smiled like an angel at the delightful taste.
Trying to ignore the inviting smell of baked goods, Oak replied, “My name’s Oak, and I paint things.”
“Where do you paint?” Wren asked.
“At the Park,” answered Oak.
“Where?” Wren questioned again. She had already finished the muffin.
“Usually at the lupine fields,” Oak said.
“How come you don’t have a lot of money?” Wren asked again. “I thought artists made a lot of money, that’s why I draw all of the time.”
Oak thought about this. At last, he answered, “Well, to make a lot of money, you have to be noticed. Nobody notices a tree,” he joked. “Just the birds that rest inside it.”
“I notice,” murmured Wren, before she fell asleep against Oak’s side. Oak smiled down at her, then closed his eyes and drifted to sleep with sounds of the rain in his ears.

When he woke up, he heard birds chirping hopefully. Wren was gone, and his jacket was draped around him. The sun was shining and he could hear the city come back to life again. Oak gathered up his things, and went to the park to start his day. He set up his easel near a small pond, and then took out his paints. He dipped his brush in the moss green for the frogs then held his brush to the canvas. But he stopped. A little ways ahead of the pond was a tree, an oak tree to be exact. In it birds were chirping and flying in and out of its protective branches. He remembered Wren’s face, and the way she had smiled when he gave her food and warmth. Smiling, he put down his brush, and picked up a new one. He squeezed out fresh colors, and began to paint. Noon came along, and he finished his painting. With a satisfied smile, he cleaned up his paints, and picked up the painting. Wren stared back at him with a divine glow around her. She sat under an oak tree, and happily munched on a muffin, his coat still draped around her in a childish fashion. Her smile lit up the whole canvas, and her bright brown eyes peered out excitingly. Oak picked up his painting then turned around. He jumped from surprise; a man in a suit stood behind him, his arms crossed. The man said his name was Mr. Sunshine and that a little bird had told him that a beautiful tree was just through the woods, and that he must see it. He offered Oak a contract with his art company, and he would pay one hundred thousand dollars for the painting Oak had just done. Oak stood there dumbfounded, then collapsed on the ground. For once, Oak cried out of happiness, and looked forward to tomorrow. The birds never sounded so beautiful.