Sparrows

There were five sparrows on the back lawn last night. Under the clothes line at dusk. Pecking at the grass. Such fragile creatures. Such plump examples of life. Of un self conscious existence. Meanwhile, I flail around, kicking at the confines of my skull. Weeping with a grief that wont stop. Like a river flooding its banks, it carves deeper and deeper recesses in me. Flattening the grass and smoothing rocks. Redrawing the land.

It would be nice to say it was a beautiful thing. In time it will be. People always marvel at the Grand Canyon, or the cascading red rock at Ulluru. Devestation accompanies the forming of beauty. Out of the quake of anguished longing comes purer and purer forms of love as quiet waters trickle down into the violent rending.

Grasping for the union we all crave. The loveless and abandoned become flooded creeks that turn to roaring foam. Deadly currents that carry us along and drown out our frantic squeals. Our calling.

Would be nice to find a blue or dark green lagoon. Quiet. Still, but for the haunting calls of floodplain birds. Long billed and thin limbed. Elegant anglers. Created by chance for deep and lasting purposes. Darting lidless eyes trained for flashing shadows in the murk.

Yes. Flashing shadows. All these flashing shadows in the murk.