If memories were sparrows,
mine would gather behind
a house half finished aluminum
sided against the landscape, windows
glazed from the inside out with smoke
of cigarette and venison burning.
They would crowd in lavender lilac,
above the intersection where each year
a robin laid impossible blue eggs,
one of which it seems would always
break, sully the perfect roundness
of a mother's mud-patched efforts
to prevent a deadly cracking. Sparrow
memories would rock limbs, tremble
leaves, blot out the threat of rain
while brown haired girls peered over
rim of tight worked straw to watch
a miracle of twin eggs coming to birth.
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