by Sarah Goldstein
A throng of sparrows is hopping at my feet.
I want to say Be careful.
It is early yet.
The warm air is collusive;
it stirs the scents of unopened flowers.
The clock sounds twelve. I throw down
my last piece of bread on the shadow
of sycamore branches forked and waving.
When every crumb is eaten, the group flocks
to the bushes for berries, all but one
thin one in a brown mask
who revels in dirt
as if it were a pile of silks.
He glances backward and bites at his nape.
His wings liken to gravel;
the shadow of the tree migrates across the stones.
He issues his note, a brief query -
twice and we have an agreement.
A promise of summer:
to grow lawless with the increasing temperature.