The Sameness of Sparrows
It cocks an eye at me.
I recall, as a boy, I stood
by a window looking at a sparrow
just like this one.
Every feather could be the same,
even the mien and stance
of the bird – the same.
I had never thought of myself
as a tree,
yet all my life
I’ve been branching away
from first roots.
Now I’m gnarled, not the same,
and still changing,
but not this sparrow,
not any sparrow.
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