The sparrow hops among the bits,
cocks its head to the spots among the rocks,
little seeds, or less, hiding in the grit,
shaded under the patio table,
specks on the windbrushed street.
It rests, satisfied, on the wristy branch,
hops down again, finds food,
and, thankful, throaty, thrives.

God grant me sparrow eyes.

Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light

Your Cart
  • No products in the cart.