Dead Sparrow in a Concrete Rain Gutter

More than all the bombs
exploding Bagdad and London,
I think God sees you,
little noiseless bird in a ditch.

Your feathers smooth,
your profile in line with your tiny body,
a delicate language in your feet.

You don't leave traces of intentions.
You shine still with such
perfection.

I will not say freedom anymore.

What rainwater will lift you
off the lichen and grime
and move you to the drainage grate?
Will your head loll on your neck?

I will not return here
to watch you floated off.

I will imagine the insects
taking you down
to filaments of feathers and dust.



by jerry gordon
7.7.05