Sparrow

A sparrow once died in my hands,
its eyes glazed over like ice on a lake.
I could feel the heartbeat slow and
stutter out. I cupped the body of feathers
and beak, breathing softly on the fledging
that was torn from the cusp of flight.

My hands trembled as I dug a shallow grave
next to my mother's garden. I marked it with
a stone the size of my fist, a monument to
fallen sparrows, discarded and forgotten
in tall grasses, in spring rain, in winter's snow,
abandoned by mortality and God's
ghostly hand.