Outside my window, two sparrows go at it.
I read in the paper that the car crashed into a wall —
speed limit doubled, bricks collapsed, neck broken.
In a moment it’s over, a quick flutter of wings.
His bed was still warm, the pillow, dented;
a half-finished paper, yesterday’s jeans on the floor.
The sparrow falls back. Life is up and away.
There was the head-rush, the rain, the hard-pressed pedal.
Was it so good—the way acceleration left the body behind?