For Love of Sparrows

The puzzle piece I choked on was the
one that saved my life. It possessed no
color, save for the translucent white of
January morning. That piece was the

puzzle's aorta, but now it is mine.
It should not be for long. The sparrows
can barely move. Their legs are twigs,
thinner than the ones that circle the oak

tree's base like rotted shark's teeth.
The sparrow's eyes are the color of
question marks and exclamation points.
Come tomorrow, they will turn into a

color that no creature has ever seen,
like the cloak that rainbows don when
they retire in nightly air ditches.
Perhaps they will match the hue of

the cloud's lodgings after July's azure
umbrella issues its seasonal eviction
notice. I ponder the shade of my own
lodgings the moment the sparrows

bathe in light. The tree and teeth will
rise above wickedness and build a new
world. I will find my hearts within the
puzzle by summer's demise.