Looking Out My Window

Sparrows on the porch roof are grubby,
engaged in squabble.
No sign
they suffer from doubt.

Some bend to drink from the gutter;
downspout is clogged.

One bird lies dead on the ground.
No gathering round,
no evident signs of sorrow.

They seem never to pause or ask why.
If only I
could be as blasé about death.

And yet,
and yet,
they greet each new day as if Christmas.

In their raffish way,
males puff out their feathers and dance
or may fight for sex.

Clearly, they are not monogamous
and it’s fun to watch
the posing and the bickering:
so much like us.