Sparrows in the City


There are sparrows in the tree.
Actually they are in the tree
I pretend is mine.
It somehow grows from fertile soil
and towers uncity-like,
nine stories high
as tall as the building next door.
I love that tree in all seasons,
but now it is summer. 

I am unsure they are sparrows,
I don’t know the call of birds.
Who is the sparrow, the robin, the blue jay, the wren?
Who lives in the city, who does not?
I only know that I hear them now,
early morning,
before the train wheels squeal
and the cars honk,
when the traffic lights are all on red,
or green, skipping yellow altogether.

Who says there is no nature in the city?
I see and hear it everyday.
The birds, the tree,
the tiny black flies that arrive as the sun rises,
the grass growing through the sidewalk cracks,
an occasional bee on the hunt for nectar.
Even the rain exists here,
though I admit, without the smell of springtime. 

The leaves rustle and flutter throughout the summer.
The breeze hits my skin,
skin that the city heats
with sweat and grit,
and as the day passes,
so does the sounds of the sparrows,
or whoever they are. 

Author: Melanie Civin Kenion

Photo: Michael Yero on Unsplash

Post a Comment