patience is in the nest

There are more ways than
One to catch a sparrow
And certainly more occasions than
At sunrise to hear a
Sparrow’s cry.

i have learned the
whereabouts of her
tiny nest
of ribbons of
aluminum from the
schoolyard and excerpts
on paper from
a manuscript of the
girl I used to write stories
about.
Words like
summer
naked
song
appear in the feather crown
like the imperceptible frame,
a whisper of black tendons
keeping it
together.

When the sparrow roosts
At night, she
Is still awake.
I walk beside her nest
And wait until
The crying ends.
I wait until the crying ends.

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