(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.