HOUSE SPARROW

I saw a strangein March before winter's blanket lifted.Still to plume into wieldy monochromes,a House Sparrow of fledgling fluff, lattefoams and breathy grey, too early usheredfrom the nest, to the garden, showed no joyin the erratic company of hispeers' combative play. No pleasure in theassaulting smack of snowballs to his skull.I imagine, back at the nest, there's norelief in the scalding bath which wizened,toughened hides insist is "fine". As siblingsguzzle the nasal lava of fizzypop, he watches on. No sugar rush. Noappetite to force down the greens on hisplate. Too often rushed with no time to be.Too early ushered from the nest.To protest the injustice, not enough notes yet.