It’s spring. The sparrow dies instantly. Quick
bang, the streetcar suspended. Small black
body. You can still see white, speckled, small
grains of rice across the back, twittering youth.
You insist on a proper burial. Together we glide
through the city, bird cupped in our palms. The
concrete, post-rain, bleak and lunar. We speak
elliptically, sleep-talk about death, wings
immobilized in flight. The air thickens, we
breathe out. Our hulls contain us, solemn as
prayer, our delicate shells of bone . . .
Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 5. Purchase the book to read the full piece.