Sparrow Logic

Sparrow Logic

The city argues in tall letters.

A sparrow writes smaller—

a note pinned to the morning

in brown and breath.

*

He lands on the rail like an answer

to a question I hadn’t asked yet,

head-tilt sharp as a comma,

eye bright with ordinary math.

*

One crumb equals enough.

One gust equals try again.

One wire between lamp posts

equals a staff where small music sits.

*

Traffic rehearses its brass section.

He chooses the flute,

threads the noise with air,

find a room where I swore there wasn’t any.

*

I have seen him blown sideways,

feathers solving for balance mid-flight,

then landing anyway—

whole as a yes that refuses spectacle.

*

His beak edits the sidewalk,

turns litter into lunch,

a routine into survival,

survival into a hymn so quiet

I almost miss it.

*

I want a lesson with prestige.

He offers a ledger with seeds:

spent, kept, shared—

a tiny economy that never overdrafts.

*

When a larger bird arrives

wearing its shadow like a badge,

The sparrow doesn’t audition fear.

He steps aside, unlost,

returns when weather remembers fairness.

*

By noon he disappears into leaves

that look like a thousand open hands.

The branch holds what it can.

He trusts the rest.

*

Sparrow logic:

carry less, return often,

sing before the reason is certain,

and build with what answers.

*

I put away my louder prayers,

buy a crust, split it small,

and practice the science of enough—

a pocket universe of crumbs

where even a tired heart

learns to land without apology,

then lift,

then land again.