The Sparrow
Never trust a sparrow, the tiny quiver.
The arrow through the ribcage
shot plumb from the trees. After all,
in nature, we are all trying to kill or be killed
by love. By sweet music. One bird,
then another. Sticks and stones.
We build our bones around hope.
Sure footed on the branch. The way
we sang each morning to let everyone
know we were still there, still alive.
After the blackness we plunged into
and out of intact. So many things
that could still us in the darkness,
but didn’t. So many that loved us,
but couldn’t. After all, the sparrow
wrote a letter, folded it around a feather.
Launched it straight into the nest.
Then nothing. Only night and trees,
and the wind that takes our breath.
