Poem: The Sparrows Sing

I gaze past a dusty sill onto a cacaphony
of yard debris.
Gaudy plastic pinwheels spin joyously
in the afternoon bright.
Sparrows chatter unceasingly,
arguing endlessly over favored plots
and tidbits of soil bearing pearls.

A chimney stands stoic.
Plastered against an era of forgotten architecture.
Two small windows lie to it's left,
barely framed, as if in afterthought.

In awe, I gasp as the bravery of the day thunders
through.
The sun whispers it's secrets, then it roars.
Like a tigress, her lust will be fed.


Without malice, the wind lies her subjects low.
Bushes bow in deference.
Flowers surrender their petals to Mother's
succulent breast.

In the distance, sirens howl in sympathy with the dogs.
Yet, without remorse,
with no recourse,
With joy,
The sparrows sing.