Sparrows

They were a spray of dark stars
loosed from a flowering bush
as I walked by, startled to stillness by the flurry
of their wings––close enough to beat wind
across my face. I watched them rise,
slimmed to tawny flecks by the gray sky
before it swallowed them.

They scattered as our voices did
when you and I were children
dwarfed before the mouth
of a train tunnel we found
playing in the woods. Empty, lit
by a disk of sifted sun, we peered
through its throat of stone, listened
to the moss drip. To be your good sister,
I wrapped you in my arms so we were close
enough to catch the thin light
between our bodies, which fluttered
slightly as our laughter
rang through the round passage,
as we heard how our collective sound tumbled
through it—tumbled, and then was gone.

Clara Collins lives in Bellingham, WA and recently completed an MFA in poetry at The University of Oregon. Her work is concerned with experiences of girl- and womanhood, specifically those often viewed as private, unattractive, or shameful. Her poetry is forthcoming in the Summer 2024 issue of Qu.