They Don’t All Fly South

by Mimi White

When I turn around to look
the sparrow is perched
atop the bluebird house
and the last two bluebird fledglings
are lying in the garden.

Deep furrows churn like the sea
when viewed from the kitchen window,
but up close the turned-over soil
is rock and dirt

and featherless wings
and skulls roped with veins.
Nothing moves
in the inert landscape.

I had planned to turn my back
on what the sparrow does
or watch like the bluebird parents
calling from a distance,

but life is movement
so I looked
and buried the dead birds.

I watch the sparrow
take off and I rub the dirt
from my hands,
in equal measure.
A sharp patch of blue
on the best days.

Last two lines a variation on a line from Alicia Ostriker’s “Poem Beginning With aLine By Rumi”