ISSUE: Autumn 1990
I join the sparrows
in the snow. As one of them,
I stir the kingdom up
and to their busy fluttering
add a chirp. If I could
make a sound to satisfy
the heavens, like wind
through paper, a harp
of wings, if I could join
the kingdom of the startled
constantly, I’d lose my
worldly wife, the snow-capped
mountain view, the death I earned
by laboring. God, speak to me
through sparrows, insist
we’re not waste and water.
The sunlight fading
late December holds no lesson
for the living. Perched
on earthly wings, above
the bog where sparrows mate
and make their home,
I sing awhile, a high, faint trill.
