The Sparrow

I see her through my window.
Spilt milk falls upon her feathers in only a way that the moon can truly understand;
with each flit of a gossamer wing, she shakes hands with Orion and brushes against Ursa Minor.
They applaud her.

So profound is the eloquence of each movement,
and so exquisite is her demeanour  — yet it is only I who observes the truth in it all; 
for she is not so delicate
for she is less than sanguine 
because, within its complexity, 
she is merely a fledgling soul;
she simply got lost along the way.

The sparrow flies only at night,
for it is only then that she feels her heart can rest at ease.
The sparrow flies only at night,
for it is only now that she feels she can set her soul on fire - 
and finally feel the heat of it.