napowrimo day no. 5

 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.