We never pay attention to the sparrows
drab brown tiny wing blurs
and maybe this is our problem.
We walk across the hard-packed ground
every day every step and only notice
when rain splits earth open.
When your surface surrenders
to a force almost invisible–
never having held a storm in your hand—
when your feet, twin soldiers
full of bones, fly without wings
you should know you’re not really flying.
Lucky sparrow, waiting out the downpour
beneath the drive-thru pharmacy’s
covered ledge. Shelter with no prescription.