Patricia Wallace Jones


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A square of grass. Tall buildings cluster near,
geometries cut angles in the sky,
impinge their frowning shadows, and yet here
a sparrow bathes in dust. He cocks his eye
at me a moment, then resumes his bath;
he fluffs his powder-puff of breast, it’s pressed
into the hollow he has made. I laugh
to see him so intently focussed, blessed
with just a sparrow brain and powderings
to keep him happy. People hurry past
absorbed and stiff with stressful human things…
I sigh. For even buildings will not last;
they fall away to ruin, stones and rust.
Yet here a little sparrow bathes in dust.