Nature

Watch the sparrow glide more fair than a dream
And dip in wind, bouncing like a drum’s thud.
He holds his breath; falls where flowers bud
Then climbs as high as a soprano scream,
Flapping triumphant in the April steam.
Perched on a post, his white neck’s splotched by mud
And his round, black beak’s blotched by bluebird blood.
Lovely things are more violent than they seem.

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