Aubade with Bread for the Sparrows

The snow voids the distance of the road and the first breath comes from the early morning ghosts. The sparrows with their hard eyes glisten in the difficult light. They preen their feathers and chirp. It’s as though they were one voice talking to God. Mornings are a sustained hymn without the precision of faith. You’ve turned the bag filled with molding bread inside out and watch the old crusts fall to the ice. What’s left but to watch the daylight halved by the glistening ground? What’s left but an empty bag and the dust of bread ravaged by songsters? There are ruins we witness within the moment of the world’s first awakening and the birds love you within that moment. They want to eat the air and the stars they’ve hungered for, little razors. Little urgent bells, the birds steal from each other’s mouths which makes you hurt. Don’t ask for more bread. The world is in haste to waken. Don’t ask for a name you can surrender, for there are more ghosts to placate. Don’t hurt for the sparrows, for they love you like a road.