Out my kitchen window, a cubist arrangement
of slate rooftops, weather-beaten shed,
neighbor’s wash flapping
on the line, someone’s
I just want to watch
a flock of sparrows like a handful of confetti
blown back and forth between
the tree and the telephone wire.
Roost, flee, return. And again.
Small, struggling bodies in the wind.
Oh, rippling laundry, swaying roses, blown birds like scraps of
paper — don’t stop for longer than a heartbeat!
All moving things: these words, my breath, the wind — can’t stop!
Nor ever know where they are going.