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The SparrowGod after the flood

Is he a bird, the sparrowgod

Who sits, as these on trees?

While we look out from brickered nests

To spy a winter’s breeze?

And those who feed – the little one,

All fluffed from fledgling’s fears,

Of cold – wait warming in the wings

When sparrowgod appears.


It is an aural adventing – 

His subjects gladly sing;

As we do, by our fire’s glow

Where all our children long for snow.



And just beyond the tree, where these, 

Whose transport is the breeze,

A blue paint comfort shelter waits

To take us where we will, on wheels;

And then the house – the window star

But of us both it’s we who’re far:

The sparrows closer to their god,

Who shall not break his sacred oath;

Though they cannot afford the time,

To worship him in words that rhyme;


But neither they who swept away – 

High tide – who’d blame a bird that day?

Both promises he always keeps:

The third flood from the tears he weeps:



The sparrowgod did watch his own:

Both beast and man who drowned at home.

For yea he sits: his throne – a tree – 

God, bird and man at Calvary.

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