Sparrow on Concrete

Stepped out for coffee,

almost on it.

A sparrow,

flat, a small brown stain

on the gray slab.

Not even ruffled,

no blood or mess,

just stopped.

Like someone hit pause

on a busy street.

Its tiny feet,

curled tight,

claws like dried twigs.

One wing, just a bit

off-kilter,

like a tie

a drunk forgot to straighten.

Right next to it,

a receipt

for a stale donut,

grease bleeding through the paper.

I skirted it,

the way you do

a thought you can't place,

or a silence

that lasts too long.

The world kept up its hum,

tires on asphalt,

a distant siren.

And I felt, suddenly,

very much alive,

and very small.