Homeless Sparrows

An old tree fell this evening, Its ancient heart surrendered to the saw's cruel embrace, The gnarled branches yielding to human ambition. Nobody listened to the crying sparrows, Their voices, delicate as fragile dreams, Were drowned out by the roar of machinery. They were born there, Amidst the leaves and the dappled sunlight, Their tiny nests cradled in the arms of the tree. And never thought of any other place their home, For in those branches, they found family and security, A refuge from a world that often seemed indifferent. They were hovering over madly, Desperate wings beating against the encroaching darkness, As the chainsaw's teeth tore through their sanctuary. Tatters of mist were hanging, Like mournful ghosts, witnessing the tragedy, Still in the chill autumn air. Dead twigs lying on the ground, The remnants of a life once vibrant and green, Whispered under the logger's trudge, Their voices a lament for what was lost. Darkness spread everywhere, As the fading sun surrendered to the night, People went to their warm beds, Wrapped in blankets of ignorance and indifference. No one thought about the homeless sparrows, Their cries faded into the void of apathy, Their homes reduced to a pile of severed limbs.