P O E T R Y
The Sparrow Nest
ED AHERN
T
HE egg-fat sparrow squats in the gutter-end under my eave. Brown and dirty beige, soft chirping and stoic.
The gutter’ s held nests for fourteen years and sparrows live but five. A granddaughter stares back, wondering why my hatchlings never returned to brood.
I refuse to yank the nests or tack on mesh despite communion wafer guano. We’ re in residence, the egg-fat bird and I.
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