Cooler days have opened our windows once more.
The breeze is bright and welcome.
Sparrows flutter about the ledge, hopping on individual bricks
as though playing a sort of hopscotch, perhaps seeking
answers for what resides within their limited view.
One prongs the screen with his tiny feet,
head bobbing in confusion, wondering why
there are no trees in there, no waterfalls,
no gardens from which to sup.
I speak to him softly,
so as to not startle him away.
He listens closely, but does not answer
except in song.
The sky grows intoxicated,
dew rising from grapes we've pressed
from tender vines, merciless in our gathering.