The Mast

A flock of sparrows
pecking in the newly laid sod
along the road
whir up together up into a maple tree
when I round the corner.
I am as startled as they, preoccupied
with a world awash, pitching right and left.
Invisible among the branches
they wait for me to pass,
and when I am very small and far away
I hear them begin to cheep and chatter
then see them swoop back down
to the grass that is browning
in the September sun.

If there is a mast to hold onto
I can grasp it here
seeing these tiny feathered bodies
of unbright colors
picking up the seeds, resuming