His Eye

His eye is on the sparrow,

both vesper and field,

the black-chinned,

and the white-throated,

the sparrows who have the mournful,

singular note,

and the ones that fly down

such a strenuous journey

on their yearly migratory trail.

They come down the fly-ways

that begin above Novgorod.

The strong-winged field sparrows

with their little

unmistakable stickpins.

His eye is on the sparrows

above my mother’s watermelon-colored crepe myrtle,

that she saw fit to include

in her last letter to me.

It was answered in the prayers

they have striven with,

where their uvular elegies,

and shrill, territorial cries

portend a suspended,

steam-wreathed resurrection.

Oh those ice-hearted canyons.

Oh those ice-hearted canyons.

Oh those ice-hearted canyons.