You'll find sparrows, my mother said
Not in the thick,
nor the deep dark
canopies of the woods
You will find them, in droves,
at the ends of tree lines,
busy, busy—always busy
whether in song or with a twig
You will find them in coves
perched upon the green vines,
busy, busy—always busy
calling out upon a sprig
They are small when alone
like me,
in the long, silent hours of my nights
But in the morning they are a chorus
reminding you of all the work yet begun
So, go, find yourself a tree
You'll find sparrows when you're done