Sparrows in Spring

The water falls drip . . . drip . . . drap
into a tin pail at the corner of the house
and the sparrows wink and teeter along the eaves
intoxicated with their own gossip.
They let fall
now a feather, now a ball of dung,
in their excitement.
They too are aware of the season,
they too dig in the ground, distribute fertilizer
and harvest seeds.
Now they ply the planting trade among themselves
while I select my corn for seed—
let us have no nonsense, they seem to say,
but be about our business
as briskly as possible.