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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required What we have named Fire Escape (an ordered, angular tangle of ladders and rail) had made picture geometries in my west window well-framed and flat–set foreground and background in two dimensions, as the sun hid, and my round eye opened. What we have named Fire Escape was flaked-paint brown orange, as if first it had been born of flame and then had long taken up living as metal– tempered itself into usefulness, which I should trust now, in case of the yelling and the engines. What we have named Fire Escape was happy Jungle Jim or Jungle for Jane for the sparrows I saw this morning which flitted and wildly played within, rising up, arched and coming back again. Made of the square pairs of ladder rungs– a tunnel entrance or ducking posts, or highway bridges to clear; the birds like small plane, daredevil pilots each following each, going under. And I supposed that no sparrow would ever crash. And what was this I remember now? How one bird eased its engine and perched there to stay? As if to offer me, with a little turn head gesture, a thank you for the bread I’d left on the sill? Or to say I’d better shut the curtain and make my exit? Either prideful guess gets me nowhere fast. Failed even is speaking in any sparrow language from my recline stuffed chair; again, but now imagined, to draw beady eyes to fix on me, telling me much less. That morning, with the last sparrow gone, I remember that nothing in my sight moved, save an American flag at a distance in the wind, with its one red-white striped wing waving toward the cold north, as the white church spire, framed in an open quadrilateral, held its position. (Written one day before the Boston Marathon bombing of April 15th, 2013)
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