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Saturday Noon, Summer
January 31, 2023
“The ground,”
Thinks the sparrow,
Naked in its youth
And pink in its flesh
As it plummets from the
Spanish tiles
Onto the sidewalk.
Winged and for what;
This temporary weightlessness is not flight.
No, it is the lie of gravity
And the truth of impact.
Beak twisted in a sinusoidal scowl,
Eyes closed, never having seen the skies
But only the blackness of the end of everything
And the ants it feeds
A quick whisk of the shovel
And now it lies bound
Under the gravity shackles
Winged and flightless,
Too young to be free.
Three days of life
And not having lived at all.
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This really happened! Over the summer of 2021, some sparrows thought that it was a good idea to build their nests on my roof and a lot of eggs and baby sparrows were left as little stains on the titles, poor schmucks.