Sparrow
Speed. Like a blur of feathers across the asphalt.
Skimming, just inches higher than the busy road.
Formation. Not keeping any by choice default.
Sparrow. A bird born brave, a bird born to be bold.
With sun in my eyes, sparrow flies past my front wheels.
I swerve to the left as this wild one goes right.
The sound of my tires braking makes a loud squeal,
But rash, brave sparrow keeps flying, showing no fright.
Copyright © Hilda Greenhough | Year Posted 2023
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