19 minutes ago
Recently, Richard and I found a chipping sparrow who had passed away on our backyard porch.One of the most crushing things about this event was to watch the bewildered female wait there as a sentinel by the side of her migratory partner, waiting silently during the fiery dawn hours for him to wake, to rouse, to be. Richard was able to take care of the male chipping sparrow, and he lay this gentle one to rest in power within the vernal forest and the veil. I wrote this elegy. Farewell tiny songbird, kindest neighbour. 🕊
I stood by the sliding window, gasped at white—
calm to that chipping sparrow.
His spark, red rustling to hymns hallowed.
As she, widowed newly,
wrestled bereaved time wonderstruck,
clueless, zapped by his formlessness—
laying it all to bare, avalanched in,
pebbles (nesting these grievous imprints)
deckling death; caution, it spoke transfixed
as morning grins laugh
to the faintness of greys,
smooth and serene in that stir-less moment.
Our eyes, these tiny engines,
of beauty and mistrust magnificent,
cursory and illusive, swept free.
Breathless even by their own fault,
the way words can puncture
into the pitch of blank sunrises,
dagger into ourselves as hushing sounds.
Hushed, hushed. Our fears,
they often look symmetrical,
gliding forward, flush, and seasoned
inside these sinew-ed bends of gobsmacked air!
Delight, yes, my friend—at this speckly beating feather.
As if weightless, the deep-throat
mystery of it all, of flight brief, cuts chance.
So, wrung this sparrow’s song;
its spirit, the thunder-thrush
of magnetic migrations, scalpels
the sacred, that thing in her
which focuses all other words of love.
Beating, beating to hymns.
To him, to eyes—closed and god-bespoke."
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