Who hasn't noted sparrows sometimes forgoing
their usual trees and hedges to build their nests in
garage eves or the top of old milk cans or abandoned
mailboxes whose jaws have permanently dropped?
They bring twigs and straw, string and cheat-grass,
even a hirsute strand of pink yarn salvaged 
from a forsaken art van craft, building 
around the prize of a wiry long brown hair 
recently brushed out of the tail of a skittish 
horse in the neighboring field. Eventually, 
she did the same, my grandmother—always
discreet, yet starting to feel those last
hot afternoons of our Indian summer 
We would drive down the road to mail
our letters and find hat pins and photos
in envelopes amongst the bills. Who knew
when the next item might appear. A rose
daubed scarf. Her father's state senate
confirmation Bible. A silver filigreed dish.
She never would presume to bring our
inheritance to our door, but leave it quietly
and as she chose—her giving carefully
calculated to become more lavish
then reckless as home approached.

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