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Ode to a Fallen Sparrow

By Helen Leslie Sokolsky

I stand riveted
within a circle of sparrows
feeling like an immigrant
trespassing on their gathering.

Squalls of white swirl around us
the snow falling steadily
in an unchanging rhythm.

One sparrow starts wandering away from the others
limping slightly
making his way to the park benches
now camouflaged in winter's coat.

He seems to find comfort on those pillars
so many stories carved into the wooden slats
voices of summer's past.

I toss some crumbs, my alms to him
he sprinkles me with down
the two of us, twisted vines
pulled together across all this stillness.

Carefully steadying himself on his podium
hurt leg tucked in feathers
the sparrow begins to trill some half notes

and from that tiny frozen heart
a fugue clamoring to wake the earth
resounds in all its splendor
his resurrection symphony.