Does anyone know
the names
of these strangers—
who make
the most unique and
uncontainable music
huddled in the bleak
zigzags of twigs
by the gate
which rims
the drab park perimeter—
who sing
as if nothing at all
was amiss in the
frozen fog
that keeps
this feverless winter
coma going strong?
I can only determine
they're often referred
to as sparrows—
but to that crass
collective slang word
they never turn to answer;
nor does it sound
nearly specific
enough to accommodate
each one's
individually
persnickety song.
