Coming from the dead wood
Where snowdrops issue white
Invitations to a new season
I see the red kite,
Huge and magnificent –
A celebrity, launching.

Later, at home,
A sparrow calls
Beyond the kitchen window.
So what? No one sees you sparrows;
No fans, no twitchers come.
However you aspired,
You’ve grown up one of millions.

I boil a kettle, look again,
And note you’re not half bad.
Surviving, eh?
Well, aren’t we all?
You may be going cheap,
But you wear brown

By Henry Berry

a juvenile white crowned sparrow perched on a branch

Henry Berry lives in a rambling old house in the rural Vale of York, England. His writing focuses on external and interior, mental landscapes inspired by intimate contact with the countryside immediately around his home. His blog can be found at

Photo of a young white crowned sparrow by Christopher Fell

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