Sparrow

I watch a mother bird in her morning flight. Wings snap open to ride updrafts and tuck in for a quick dive. She catches a bug in her sharpened beak and alights on a tin roof to feed her young.

I wonder if the language of motherhood translates to birdsong. If the sparrow lends comfort to her chick before casting off again. If she trims a wayward feather or flattens a downy cowlick.

I wonder if she will miss the chick when he takes his own leap into the dawn. If she will watch the wings snap open and know that the world is better for having heard the sound. If the chick will glance back, just once, just to see his mother’s pride.

I like to imagine that, once the chick is satisfied and the bugs have fled the rooftops, the sparrow meets the wind once more, just for herself, just because it’s fun.