I like to watch the sparrows in the garden. How they dart about, chatter amongst themselves, all fly off in the one, sudden moment, return later, one or two, then more, come back to pick for food, drink from the bird bath and the other smaller bowl I’ve put in the garden, one that I fill several times a day when, like now, it’s hot, sunny, the UV extreme.
They feather the day with a rich loom, softening the edges of the bright light. Every now and then, when I’m out in the garden, one will alight near me on a branch or shrub, and I’ll feel known, just in that sudden glance, a moment’s grace, some point of feathered origin.
Sparrow days, feathered ways.