Upon the ever-weathered branch,
Motionless, tuneless, molting nude,
A sparrow watched the bloody jaws
And feathers flew, and feathers flew.
Yesterday the sparrow lurked
Whipping, dripping, molten cruel.
She stripped the wolf with bitter blades
And wings unfurl; her wings unfurl.
Tonight she soars into the black,
Plated, sated, empty thing.
The hands of clocks edged violent steel.
And still she sings, and still she sings.