Sparrow

Little bird crouches on the concrete.

Eyes hooded. I didn’t know birds had eyelids.

It doesn’t look around. Doesn’t chirp. Doesn’t twitter. 

Squats, motionless, 

a fluff of brownish speckled feathers,

so still, it might be a make-believe model 

with wired claws wrapped around a make-believe twig.

Except that this one 

buries its claws beneath its breast. 

On the concrete.

In the sun.

Motionless. 

God sees the little sparrow fall.

Its eyes open. Tiny. Black. Fathomless. 

Its head twitches, swivels. 

Signs of life.

It can’t quite focus.

Avian concussion?

It tries to rise onto its feet.

And falls over.

I pick it up, a mortal morsel cupped in my hands.

It makes no effort to flap, to fly.

It rests on my skin, light as a snowflake,

soft as a lover’s touch. 

I move it to a shady spot, where the day’s heat 

bears down on it less heavily. 

The bright beads of its eyes flick towards me.

Then close. 

It meets God’s tender view.

A momentary breeze ruffles its feathers.

But the breeze is not the sparrow.

The feathers no longer attach to a life. 

My empty palms hold a handful of questions.

Did it suffer?

Did it wonder?

Will this be me?

If God so loves the little things

Is this how God loves me?

by Jim Taylor, July 2021