His eye is on the sparrow. I watch them too; from my porch I can see the golden feathers lit by sunrise rays. I counted myself among them, it seemed much simpler that way. Didn't intend to build a nest there, to stay, but the days grow short and my safe harbor is miles and miles away. My mother asked me not to cut my hair, her golden headed daughter; is pride wrapped up in locks? I will lose it all anyway, every yellow strand. Maybe the sparrows will come to use it, weaving homes, their own safe harbors. There is good in that at least - I wondered a long while if it was possible - but I like to think it's true. His eye is on the sparrow
I watch them too.