Out my kitchen window, a cubist arrangement of slate rooftops, weather-beaten shed, neighbor’s wash flapping on the line, someone’s long-legged rosebush. I just want to watch a flock of sparrows like a handful of confetti blown back and forth between the tree and the telephone wire. Roost, flee, return. And again. Small, struggling bodies in the wind. Oh, rippling laundry, swaying roses, blown birds like scraps of paper — don’t stop for longer than a heartbeat! All moving things: these words, my breath, the wind — can’t stop! Nor ever know where they are going.