Issue > Poetry
The Sparrow Has Trilled
into being among leaf
rot and blue trellis
south of the house, Japanese
maples in their shyest hue—
morning takes her legs
for a walk, hoping to ease
a night in the soil
from her hips, light watery
at the windows, night snoring.
August, the garden
a rusty tangle, our hope
for perfect plums gone.