Sparrows sing for reasons of their own
and when I begin to understand,
they will hopefully change their motives
and sing for a new reason,
leaving me eternally mystified.
My need to know is of no
consequence to birds who go about
their lives feasting at my table
only because it is offered, because
it is there.
Their ribald ecstasy in spring means
nothing to them in relation to me,
their frenzied rituals are not contingent
on my knowing what it is they do or why.
Living their lives in complete
anonymity they care not one wit
what I might think or say. Flying
away at my approach, they
want no contact, only the food
that I provide.
They sing, for reasons of their own,
and it pleases me to not know why.