You must be having a good time up there
in that blue
with those sparrows,
who flutter in and out of your hair
and your hands,
without purpose or presence.
You’re a sight.
You’re a spectacle.
You’re a mirage.
And although I know
that I ought to warn you of the impending swarm,
I cannot bring myself to interrupt
a quick moment of calm
in an otherwise dissonant day.