For Stars Not Yet Begun
(or Sparrow in the Sierras)
Tom Sheehan
All morning Sparrow moved
above the tree line, hearing only his boots,
loose stones, wind in a bottle in his ear,
a trumpet at odds with the voices he created,
basso profundo; might as well have been opera,
canyon-deep, now and then tenor out of rocks,
ahead, always ahead, calling, promising, whistles
from a formed mouth rocks had made purse-fully
just for the sum of winds
off the peaks, passionate,
moaning as a bride might moan nearing midnight.
For three days he heard the last word spoken to him,
a quick “g’day” from a prospector passing by as much
apparition as his eyes would allow, swallowed wholly
by a twist in the trail, boots, mule, even the heavy
scent of old burlap and barns and leathers near
destruction fading past recognition, past recall:
Sparrow here, gathering for a star not yet begun.