A Guild of House Sparrows

They carry dark and light with them,
and scatter them both,
rushing from the hedgerows,
caucusing in the thatch along gutters.
They claim safe harbor;
they are what remains.
All the word has shuttered;
curtains swing closed,
and their flight is gone.
The fine syllables in dry grass
sputter and shriek, the one future song.
Meg Smith
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