The sparrows flit
Amidst autumn groves
Of ash and of oak.
Their songs slip
Like a gossamer breeze
Through the branches,
Whose outstretched arms
Embrace the tune
With rosy fingers splayed.
Beneath the boughs,
On a bed of moss,
I drift into reverie.
The shade is thick,
The leaves fall,
And the sparrows sing on.
I listen with one ear perked
And another nestled in dirt.
Sleep will take me.
Winter will follow.
But the forest will echo
With the flutter of wings
And the sparrows’ sweet trill.
He Who Wanders 