The sky is coldly grey
the rain drips slowly
soaking the dreary, unresponsive earth.
And
on a tree’s bare branches
[starkly stretching towards the sky like empty hands]
the sparrows flit.
Somehow they fit --
their drab brown coats are copies of the atmosphere.
their quick, sharp hops belie their modest feathers
they dart
through raindrops
through winter raindrops
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