JK Fowler

The sparrow twists its little head left, then right. It knows what we are thinking, studies us, flits away and posts itself gallantly on the weathered tree branches now barren.

Thriving off of the growth of civilization, the sparrow has adapted to the ways of humans, in great numbers they exist upon the refuse of mankind. Its movements quick, almost manic, it takes in sensory information at the speed of light, judges whether it is in danger or not, resides within a coursing ball of 15-20 other sparrows just in case. As with humans, they too have a tendency to plunder nature, ripping new plant shoots from the ground, decimating fruit still on the trees, extinguishing flowering plants. But this one simply sits and watches, seems far distant from a signifier of destruction, seems curious, almost playful. I throw a few seeds out along with some bread crumbs. It hops over on its pumpkin-orange legs, twists its head to the left watching me and then decides it is safe and begins to eat, manically pausing every so often to check that I have not moved.

One minute later, the sidewalk is inundated with their little puffed-up bodies, each vying for the best position nearest the food. The brawls begin, two begin pecking at each other, chirping obscenities and while they fight, another swoops in, takes the very food that they were fighting over. The timid or the small remain passive but clever in the background. While they miss out on the larger morsels, they wait for the intensified fights to begin and as the bigger birds go for each other’s necks, calmly they will hop in and begin their long-awaited feast. The old and decrepit are brought pieces by some of the bigger birds that hop them over in their beaks, drop them to the frozen concrete below, and stand guard as the elders eat.

There is a strange sense of commonality between these birds and humans. Perhaps it is no mistake that they have grown in such large numbers with mankind. They have become the backdrop of city-life, the nonchalant decorations in our daily comings and goings. Miniature representations of the radiance and madness that mankind embodies, the sparrows rest calmly within the collapsing branches of an effete  society marking time, watching us as we busily ride out our days.

A petite, disheveled sparrow hops in my direction, stopping not four feet from my boots. I smile and it opens its beak, its little pink tongue quivering. “Our day will come,” I hear the sparrow say and taken aback, I clench the bread bag tight in my left hand, turn quickly and go back inside, scrupulously watching that the sparrow does not follow.

It merely flies away.