why does the sparrow alight
at my barred window,

what does it view from
its iron bar perch,

brushing its furtive beak on
the black-painted surface,

a wave movement,
going down its throat,  

a jasmine creeper,
wound to the bars,

buds anew, withered
petals, dew-fragrant bloom,

it sees none of those,
but a habit embarked

on by some instinct,
the sparrow stays

stays stays stays...
and to what urge,  

at a exact moment,
it takes flight

dwindle dwindle
dwindling from sight,

a soul so petite,
mammoth sky...