I Watch House Sparrows

A pest, common as dirt, some say,

this pushy invader from Asia,

but I like to see a flock drop

like a sudden shower and rise

with a burst of wings,

these two-for-a-cent birds

with monkish brown hoods

and legs thin as broom straws,

their chirps discordant,

their hunger tremendous.

At twilight when the sky turns

navy blue and the last breeze

of the day stops, they dive into

the densest shrubs and find

some rest among spiny branches

where it seems there’s no way in.

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The John and Mim Poems is a portrait of a marriage and Miriam Levine’s gift to you.