Hastening

after that slender snippet

of dried grass

that slipped from

his grasp,

he tumbles from

the roof’s spine,

scrabbles over shingles

giving chase —

and it eludes,

that straw-pale length,

so perfect,

so well suited to

his task,

that he persists

and dives,

frantically parting

damp air

on drawn wings

till both settle

upon green-fringed

soil.

Clutched in

bent-wire claw,

he soars to the eaves

to stuff it in

amongst a mass of

similar

lengths and bits —

that perfect piece.

Silly sparrow.

Such display over one

blade so like

another.

But —

do we,

ourselves,

not do

the very same?

— C.Birde, 3/16