Sparrow

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Sparrow’s nest perched 12 stories high.
Even with a tilted sky.
No longer looking up at what might be
From a vantage that might be
best summed up unequally
Outward
Highways stretch toward rolling hills
Dotted nature and manufactured possibility
Literally looking down on an overcooked tenderloin
So blackened even the sparrow refuses the thick slab.
But he must listen,
and therefore must imagine.
And so much life happening down there. 
All a tangled cacophony
And up here, measured geometry
Two textures both too textured,
Neither seeking balance nor familiarity
Eventually even the sparrow will come home to roost on
some sooted rooftop.
But for now
the winds are fair
And sparrow’s been given the gift of flight.