A SPARROW on the curled lip of a flower pot, a male sparrow. I can tell by the dark feathers down his back. When he cocks his head skyward, I see his mask in profile.
An acorn in the flower pot, where the dirt meets the plastic. I didn’t put it there, and not an oak tree in sight, so I know it wasn’t blown in by the wind, I wonder, could it have been planted by a bluejay? They’re famous for spreading oak trees like that, acorn by acorn by acorn.
Half-buried, the oak-fruit has taken root in the loose dirt, has sprouted into a two-leaved parasol barely taller than the small bird in its shade.
It’s all beautiful. Everything is.
It’s all beautiful. Everything is.