Issue 4 Cover_final_web Poecology

Issue 4

 

 
 

Peter Neil Carroll

 

Sparrows

 
 
Outside the chilly panes
only sparrows fly, feathers
brown as city snow. Grandma
liked to leave broken bagels
on the fire escape, but me

she gave chocolate cherries, teasing
if I didn’t come to her funeral,
she’d haunt me as a ghost.
She frightened me and I did go.
She returns anyway, taunting

my bookish ways. I know
nothing about sparrows—
if they prefer rye to cornbread,
make their nests in Florida
or hatch at the Bronx zoo.

In spring, the sparrows return, wait
at the window for Grandma’s hand.
I offer a muffin; the birds show
no hunger. I whistle; they fly away.
I’m watching a language become extinct.