From the sparrow on the ledge I heard its prey full moan, to come hinder and hear its speech. Field of baking sun and newly formed harvest I feared the vulture, knowing its secret song, and scolding worship. Upon the clearest apple did the sparrow sing its talent and birthright, extent of changing speech down to an art, machines down to its gears and levers, the king in the house of white down to his inner child Be my singer for some time, show your true form; show my life as simple and ignorant to thrust as fruitful. Sinful bird you know the truth and not I, be my teacher. Night begins, master croaks, pine stalk turns to visions of how I can escape into dimension, to be written into stone as the sparrow.
Sparrow On the Ledge
November 7, 2010