Eye on the Sparrow

I woke to rapid flapping, the air cold

the time unknown. The dog’s paws tapping

on chill hardwood floor. Sudden

commotion. Jumping to corral what was

assumed to be an animal fight, I find

a California Towhee in my dining room.

Frantic, frightened. Brisk movement in her

wings making the room that much more frigid.

I stammer to her. Follow her room to room

as she attempts to fly her way out of walls

until she finally calms, allowing me to cup her

into my hands. We sit together outside

on a frosty concrete step. My bare feet

settling on top of wet fall leaves, gathering

the taste of morning in my mouth, the scent

of rain and dirt. She catches her breath.

My thumb softly wrapped around her chest

feeling her heart rate regulating, her eyes opening,

her fear receding. Leaves rustle, wind and traffic

move along while she and I watch each other

in a place where time moves slower than the rest

of the world. Her eyelids the color of peach

and terracotta. Her body the rusty hue of autumn.

Her eyes the same shade as mine, dark as loam.

I flatten my hand. She doesn’t move. We sit

together for what seems like hours. What seems

like fate when safety is reciprocated. Ten minutes

later she flies, stops on a dog-eared picket

and looks back. The dog quietly watches me.

How I love and let go all at once.