A blog about poetry, the writing and reading thereof, and also about the stuff of the world that goes into making poetry, which is to say, everything
Monday, September 6, 2010
It was in a large bush in a park next to Navy Pier downtown. Darren pointed it out and I moved closer to it. The whole flock of sparrows that had been in the bush also, all hopsome and chirping, flew away, leaving the parakeet behind. I moved closer, and though it hopped another few inches deeper into the bush, it did not fly away. I spoke to it, the way I'd heard bird owners speak to their pets, and it tilted its head, listening. I held out my hand, finger outstretched, imagining that it would come to me and I would save it. But the parakeet did not jump onto my outstretched finger. It called, a call that seemed so familiar. I realized it was the sound a sparrow makes, the parakeet had learned a new language. I hoped it would survive the winter. I hoped the sparrows continued to keep company with the yellow and lime green little guy. I thought about fitting in. I thought about adoption. I thought about captivity, and escape, and the prices of freedom. I thought about how beautiful the small bird was, and also too the hundred sparrows around it, and I got on my bike and rode away.