When a Sparrow Sings

When a Sparrow Sings

Belittled brown sparrow,
darting between menacing crows,
slipping through their lands,
trying to vanish,
ready to flee
when their shadows swell large.

She watches them congregate
in the ancient split oak,
they cache cigarettes
and stolen magazines
in the hollow they thought hidden.
Reeking of secrets and summer sweat.
A sparrow sees everything.

She sang her small truth to the trees,
hoping to finally be free.
Watching justice descend,
hawks cleaving the earth with their talons,
scattering contraband, shearing wings.

But crows remember.

Three weeks they observed
the sparrow's dearest canine companion
nosing around the old stone well,
three weeks they catalogued
the rhythm of his wandering.

When it came, it was cruel
the way crows claim nestlings,
without hesitation,
a small body vanishing
into thirty feet of darkness.

Now the sparrow knew,
some songs, once sung,
ricochet back as shrieking,
the well carves more,
it takes a piece of the singer too,
leaves her hollowed,
learning the merciless arithmetic
of cause and effect,
how one small truth
can ravage everything that matters,
how the crows always,
always
prevail.