The sparrow

(To My Father) This sparrow     who comes to sit at my window          is a poetic truth more than a natural one.     His voice,          his movements, his habits—     how he loves to          flutter his wings in the dust—     all attest it;          granted, he does it to rid himself of lice     but the relief he feels          makes him cry out lustily—     which is a trait          more related to music than otherwise.     Wherever he finds himself          in early spring, on back streets      or beside palaces,          he carries on unaffectedly      his amours.          It begins in the egg, his sex genders it:     What is more pretentiously          useless or about which     we more pride ourselves?          It leads as often as not to our undoing.     The cockerel, the crow          with their challenging voices cannot surpass     the insistence          of his cheep! Once      at El Paso          toward evening, I saw—and heard!—     ten thousand sparrows          who had come in from the desert     to roost. They filled the trees          of a small park. Men fled (with ears ringing!)     from their droppings,          leaving the premises to the alligators     who inhabit          the fountain. His image is familiar     as that of the aristocratic          unicorn, a pity there are not more oats eaten     nowadays          to make living easier for him.     At that,          his small size, keen eyes,     serviceable beak          and general truculence assure his survival—     to say nothing          of his innumerable brood.     Even the Japanese          know him and have painted him     sympathetically,          with profound insight into his minor     characteristics.          Nothing even remotely subtle     about his lovemaking.          He crouches before the female,     drags his wings,          waltzing, throws back his head     and simply—          yells! The din is terrific.     The way he swipes his bill          across a plank to clean it,     is decisive.          So with everything he does. His coppery     eyebrows          give him the air of being always     a winner—and yet          I saw once, the female of his species     clinging determinedly          to the edge of a water pipe,     catch him          by his crown-feathers to hold him     silent,          subdued, hanging above the city streets     until          she was through with him. What was the use     of that?          She hung there herself,     puzzled at her success.          I laughed heartily. Practical to the end,     it is the poem          of his existence that triumphed     finally;          a wisp of feathers flattened to the pavement,     wings spread symmetrically          as if in flight, the head gone,     the black escutcheon of the breast          undecipherable, an effigy of a sparrow,     a dried wafer only,          left to say and it says it     without offense,          beautifully; This was I,     a sparrow.          I did my best; farewell. William Carlos Williams