SPARROWS

Sparrows tremble
on my narrow walkway
as we deliver
bread like St. Francis
with a tub of water cups
from the river
on this frozen
December 17th day
fearing a rutless wind
up from the sea churning East
watching from the inside
the birds having a feast
near the forest wood
hearing a bear cub
in my neighborhood
followed by a coyote
turn into a beast
but only wanting beauty
knowing life turns
into a metamorphosis
by writing my poetry
as if a young sentry discerns
the tongue of the avant-garde
as is my business duty.