Urban Living

Have you noticed how the sparrows own the hawthorn trees

in the scrap of land between the parking lot and the driveway?

How they gorge themselves and chitterchatter,

while the gray squirrels claim the territory beneath the tree?

Look up at the pigeons on the building parapet,

how they survey the scene, consult in pigeonese,

then drop to begin their day of fouling cars

and strutting in the sidewalk.

Each morning I call, “Good morning, sparrows!”

Each morning the little brown birds go silent

as we walk by, the dog straining at his leash,

eager to investigate whatever hides in the hostas.

The pigeons, barely perturbed, rise, circle, fall back, feast.

But the rabbits – have you noticed how they freeze, hiding from the dog?

There’s an abundance of bunnies, a feast for the falcon who

swoops down after dark, startling the dog and me on our evening walk.

We hear the godawful screech, the rip in Eden. Then a rustle, a resettling.

Tomorrow the falcon’s dinner may be the white-splotched pigeon

or the one who is iridescent indigo. Still the sparrows

will chatter. And I will greet them, “Good morning, sparrows!”

2025