Sparrows
Spring comes and autumn goes,
Likewise in the town of sparrows.
Under the eaves and in the ivy
They wage dispute of polity.
If someone speaks, someone demurs;
They are indomitable bickerers.
One can easily imagine them
Asquabble in the copses when brave William
Led his band by, or even once
In the dust near Hannibal's elephants.
Maybe in the primeval fire
They went at it: what's his, what's hers?
Apparently they do not welcome
Finality in sparrowdom.
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