I saw a sparrow
sitting on a post,
a bit of fence dividing green from green,
here from there, field from solitary road.
He was quiet and serene,
composed as a monk who has finished
his evening prayer, his final circadian vow.
At last he spoke.
He did not have a home, did not own a nest.
His lone vocation was traveling,
for this, he said, was the only true
for any creature with a heart that beats,
with lungs that fill with air, with chi.
When I asked him if his life ever grew
this lacking of hearth and home,
he spread his wings and for a time flew circles
over pastures before returning to his
“We are always leaving and arriving,” he explained.
“Rivers do not stop flowing,
grass does not stop growing
though the ocean and the land may pause for a while.
You see, the Earth is Noah’s Ark.”
Bowing his head, he took to the skies
heading south to a land where consciousness was king.
I continued walking down my lonely road.
I had a destination once, or so I thought,
but now my steps themselves are home,
which is what my feathered guru taught.