It Had Been That Way Once

There was a birdhouse--

and a branch moving in all sorts of directions;

longer by the minute

and peanut butter with pine combs

and maggots

and the smell of death

But all she could hear was the end of the affair--

and there he was

the sparrow

certainly black

confident in his wisdom

Residing there only to say, "It's not you. It's me."