The Bowerbird and the Plain Gray Feather
A bowerbird named Rufus spent every morning decorating his bower. A bower is a little stage of sticks, and Rufus wanted his to be the finest in the forest. He lined it with blue berries, blue bottle tops, and one blue feather he had found. He would not allow a single thing that was not blue.
One afternoon a small wren landed nearby. She held a plain gray feather in her beak. "I found this for you," she said. "It was the softest thing in the forest."
Rufus frowned. "It is not blue," he said. "It does not belong."
The wren said nothing and flew away, and the feather drifted to the ground by the edge of the bower. That night a cold wind blew through the trees. Rufus shivered on his branch, and he looked at his bower. Berries and bottle tops are hard and cold. The gray feather lay in the dust, soft and warm.
In the morning Rufus carried it to the very center of the bower. A fine collection, he decided, is not about matching. It is about what you are glad to have.