Member Poem

I look at the sparrow, its
brown wings snuggled
beak opening only for the occasional chirp
sitting plainly on the dying autumn tree above me
and think
“damn,
that bird
doesn’t need to worry about its financial security
or unemployment, political corruption, or crime
or family and friends
or anything,
for that matter”.
And I
keep on walking.

The coming winter
I see
that bird,
on the ground,
still.

Dead of hypothermia.