Baby bird fallen from its nest high in a tree

flutters now in the dust around my feet.

I reach down, cup my hands to hold the tiny thing.

Warm and dry, peeking eye, it weighs nothing.

Every sparrow that falls dies in its sin.

To lift him I put my hands beneath his armpits.

I’m surprised to find them so cool and dry.

I pull him up again in his chair. He’s weightless.

“Wonderful. Only you can do it right.”

Every sparrow that falls dies in the night.

Forget that eagles tear, vultures wait, mocking bird

knocked me from my chair and told me to sing,

the beating wings about me stuttering a word.

Dinosaur skulls glisten under the skin.

Every sparrow that falls dies in the dirt.

Untitled (Tall Trees Grove, Orick, California), 2010