Sparrow

Matthew King

A sparrow came in, and swiftly flew through the hall . . . but that is the  

twinkling of an eye and the briefest of moments, and at once he comes again  

from winter to winter.   

—The Venerable Bede  

The   first time   

I held   my child  

in my   arms  

he was   eleven  

years   old and 

the   fragility  

of        his body  

reminded     me  

of the      pneumatized  

bones      of birds  

filled        with  

space       for air  

I had       made a  

home        hollow  

walls      against  the  

wintry      dark  

a             sanctuary  

warmed          and  

fire-           kindled  

with open          door  

but he    arrived  

erratic    flight  

fury-     faced   

fists      and  

feet     crashing  

through           half- 

inch      plaster  

swiftly      in  

a      twinkling  

flying   again into  

the  

           falling  

                  rain  

the    shifting  

winds.

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