How queer the sparrow looks,
Flapping through the air.
A flash of brown, a muted sound,
Near, far off, and there.
Quick they hide among the leaves,
They neither jump nor twitch.
Behind the threads a spider weaves,
They utter no cry or pitch.
And so our little sparrow sits
There on a crooked tree.
Among the colours where it fits
And where we cannot see.
Apr 9, 2025
Apr 9, 2025 at 5:51 PM UTC
How queer the sparrow looks,
Flapping through the air.
A flash of brown, a muted sound,
Near, far off, and there.
Quick they hide among the leaves,
They neither jump nor twitch.
Behind the threads a spider weaves,
They utter no cry or pitch.
And so our little sparrow sits
There on a crooked tree.
Among the colours where it fits
And where we cannot see.
Just some fun thing I wrote when bored. Messing around with writing a rhyming poem as quickly as I could. For some reason the infamous Sparrow came to mind as a subject. I love how you can cycle past a bush and suddenly a whole swarm of them will fly off (or sometimes into), startled, while before you could hardly see them.
