Sparrows bob their feathered heads in
puddles
of April rain. Up and down they peck the
waters,
their beaks jackhammering the stillness
into concentric circles that reflect
gray-brown passerine faces, a bird revue
of headshots before nature’s funhouse
mirrors.
Sometimes I wish I could drink with them,
see how many faces I have worn,
how many shards of water glass reveal
my life’s masquerades, kneel before the
puddle,
drink my fill beside that bobbing sparrow
until the rains end, the bird shakes dry
its wings,
and the mirrors fade with the amen of my
confessions.
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