from These Denver Odes
At this week's yard sale
sparrows swap husks and hulls,
dry, but not amusing,
and they soon move on.
Next door's seed is new,
the last word in millet.
They beat each other up,
first doing no harm.
They will return. Ice
will dam their best bedrooms;
the cold will not comfort
their minuscule down:
and I'll fill their bath
regularly with hot
water, regularly
frozen in seconds.
A hard little life,
sparrows'. Precarious
hearts, what can they recall?
Listen how they sing.
Dumb little bastards.
Dry seed, cold empty beds,
taut untutored lifelines.
Listen to them sing.
No comments:
Post a Comment