Sparrows

Memories are fleeting things

like sparrows in the arms of trees

with mottled wings

and unseen sights they bear:

green mountains, clear streams

the fingered feathers of flighted

sounds, shapes, flying, switching

between the branches where only

some light can penetrate.

Fog may fall over the boughs

rest billowing around the trunks

and small sparrows may be obscured,

lost in the white shadow.

Yet healthy sparrows will emerge

as fog is pierced by rising dawn

and birds that carry sights will soar

from morning branches into afternoon air

and evening thoughts will think on sweeter scenes,

languages our minds have forgotten

but remain indelible to the soul.