#351

[frenchroast.livejournal.com]

Such havoc there was in your house
when the sparrow flew in
and the cats set to: somebody's arms
flailing, somebody's larynx ululating. You
were reaching out to interrupt a cat
as the sparrow dove into your arm
beak first, and pierced you through the denim
like, in truth, a hypodermic needle,
the tiny wound introducing
a great quietness. How
solemnly then, and oh so slowly you
sidled into the out-of-doors, the sparrow
at peace on your sleeve in a semblance of nest.
Did the air move? Only a little. Hardly enough
to ruffle a bough on the red-leaved Japanese maple
that you were about to become—or would have become
if this were a myth, or a believer's dream.

~Barbara Greenberg