Sparrow is packing heat.
He has taken up residence
atop a propane burner on the deck,
building his family into their nest;
an outrageously flammable construct.
We hold our fire,
keep our distance,
while sparrow, careless, kicks back.
Is this bald-faced contingency a design flaw, or
the conceit of a bird-brained genius?
Sparrow’s out foraging.
Tiny unseen beaks sing
their repetitious repertoire
of faith, hope, and hunger
to the father.
Sparrow stakes his claim to the feeder
which I had bought, and filled, and hung;
beneath his scolding, I beat a retreat.
Unabashed, he faces down the scarlet cardinal;
unchastened by the chattering squirrel,
careless of the black-wigged crow,
the bold, brown ragamuffin knows his place,
beautiful in the eye of the Beholder.
… and then he was gone,
without a word of thanks,
regret, or good riddance;
only the quiet absence
of a watchfulness I had grown
used to turning aside.