Hardy Bird

                        for Felix Stefanile

When I can hear my raucous sparrows sing,
I shed some gravity, then brace to fly
until their urgent chords start softening.

We echo notes like these to justify
dark hours with blank pages—time we spend
in ways no predator can comprehend.
Like sparrows pulling grubs from rotting oaks,
we peck obsessively; and if we pry
some morsels from the wood that satisfy
demands for sustenance, we try to coax
our throats to warble songs no soul has heard.

We are indebted to the steadfast man
who hears the sorrow of the striving bird
and spreads whatever crumbs of bread he can.

Copyright © 2003 A. M. Juster All rights reserved
from The Secret Language of Women
The University of Evansville Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission