Once, I was at the zoo with my sister.
In the gorilla house, a little sparrow hurled its fragile body
against finger-thick plexiglass, perplexed
by the pain of each sudden slamming halt.
She and I laughed with pity and cornered it,
cupping our hands around it on one side,
the pane on the other.
I was afraid I would crush it; I held it too loosely,
and it escaped.
We re-caught it, I told myself to hold tighter
this time. I squeezed oh so
slightly, feeling the frantic beating of its
wildly tiny heart, its bones like glass threads,
clinging hard to the precious meat of life
with every flutter of muscle.

For long moments after opening
my hands like heavy chests
and letting the wisp of treasure dart away,
I stood, my gaze following behind:
a long ribbon tied to one brittle limb.