Wings

The window to the left
of my desk where I sit
most mornings
still shows the faint lacy
pattern on the glass
of a sparrow’s collision,
one I was sure he wouldn’t
survive.

And yet,
he wasn’t on the river rocks
or in the potted fuchsia
beneath the window,
or on the concrete sidewalk.

I thought he must have
a reputation for grit,
for pluck and strength
to lift his wings
to the weeping willow
and beyond.

I’ll wait for rain
to wash off what’s left
on the window,
a not-so-subtle reminder
to take what comes.

And I’ll remember
the sparrow,
my tiny harbinger of hope.

Published
The California Literary Review