On Watching My Nephew Trying to Save a Downed Sparrow
Perched at the kitchen island,
I did not hear the soft thud.
I did not hear the frantic flapping.
Instead, I heard you calling,
voice cracking from adolescence and alarm.
By the time I arrived,
our visitor was not moving. Its eyes
were wide and flitting,
each dark like mine,
its plumage brown. So, too, me.
Cradling it in a towel,
you gently placed it in a shoebox.
How quickly plumed movements
cease, how quickly cardboard
turns to coffin! As I watched you
clasp your gentle hands,
ask that wings meet wings above,
I almost interlaced my fingers.
I almost said a prayer.




