Snip Snip
A sparrow nestles in my hair.
The brambly stock provides good cover, but
pert feathers peek over the edge.
I feel them fan and brush.
Snip snip to
Tickle and tug to
Trim and pluck to
bring a little order to
my unkempt crown.
Her tiny beak makes a quilt of the thatch
with the tenderness of making a home.
Too absorbed in her work to notice me, watching
admiring, her unruffled industry.
Feathers are falling like the leaves. My feathers.
Dark needles of this knotted pine brush my cheek,
float down into the undergrowth, out of the sun.