Sparrow

There you are,
resting in the gutter. 
You’re still intact,
your soft brown feathers
move with the breath of the wind,
your neck
teems with insects.
I wrap my hand in a plastic Safeway bag and
lift you, dislodging
a little black cloud of flies.   
As I walk, your head
dances and jiggles,
slightly attached by a strip
of skin and sinew, and I walk slowly
and steadily so it doesn’t
fly away.

In my backyard
I dig a small hole in the soft soil.
You nestle among the tulip bulbs,
deep in the earth.