Whether I heard or saw it first is moot:
The rustling arched toward a gap in the porch roof.
An inquiring beak, the curve’s continuation,
Gave a prod too brief to complete its investigation
Of a niche to build a nest. Retire, rest,
Repeat. One common sparrow’s furious quest,
Compulsion of the ordinary, fevered desire
Focused, simple, noble (I thought) as fire—
And my phrases rose like a flock of birds
Dispersed, driven to make a home of words.
That sparrow had the right stuff; I envied its sense
Of purpose. A common error: its incandescence
Shone with purpose, but sense? It was only me
Who tethered the two. The one with feathers flew free.