The little sparrow on the tree branch does not know.

He sees the berries on the bush,

ripe, round, and red.

He feels the soft, warm breeze

teeming with adventure

and possibility of flight.

It ruffles his feathers

and teases him to leap,

but he doesn’t quite yet.

 

The little sparrow can hear

the croonings of the other sparrows

far above;

they ride the air

and glide around each other

playfully.

He yearns to join them;

to pluck a lush, juicy berry

for them all to share.

The evergreen glade that surrounds him,

so alive

with fresh sounds, sights, and smells,

so immense

and so open-

it excites him.

 

The little sparrow opens up his glossy wings

to soak up the noonday sun,

and then he tilts,

and then he leaps,

but the little sparrow does not know.

He cannot fly.

His wings are broken.

He continues to fall

from his branch

towards the green forest floor,

faster

and faster.

Perhaps now,

the little sparrow knows.