Sparrow on the Sill

Another night, a slow parade

of numbers on the clock, unmade

my careful plans for rest.

Then, from the window, soft, a test:

a sparrow, small, began to try

its broken song against the sky.

The hum of the fridge, a low, dull drone,

was all the sleep I'd ever known

for hours. Then that fragile call,

a tiny thing, about to fall

or fly. And on the sill, I saw

a single feather, touched by raw

first light, disturbed, perhaps, by the

first hesitant, brave melody.