I'm Told God Counts the Sparrows
Throwing seeds to the dark snow,
I found a sparrow near the door.
It lay where heat
seeped to it, our warmth.
I used the empty seed bag to lift it up.
A broken part like a bony ear
jutted from its forehead.
I shuddered it into the garbage,
hurried to close the ties. Ted said
what he thought was a plastic
bag
at the roadside was the body of a woman
hit by a car. His son had to tell him stop.
When the cops came, Ted was
their suspect,
breath audible, terrified face.
Hours passed before they let him go.
Ted's an officer of the church.
I don't know why I never liked Ted.
He's been asking about guilt, about
redemption, the same questions
I ask.