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Grey Sparrow Journal and Press, as of January 31, 2018 will move to

Issue 30, July 31, 2017
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To the crows passing over complaining

or laughing. I can’t tell which.

To Roethke for saying, “O to be delivered

from the rational into the realm of pure song.”

To Mariza singing fado, and my eyes brimming with tears

that belong to someone else.

To the woodpecker in winter. Keep at it, my friend,

there must be something to eat inside that tree.

To my wife talking in her sleep.

To the woman who said, incensed,

“If it’s not in the Bible, I don’t believe it.”

To a housefly drowning

in a drop of something from last night’s party.

To 6,000 feet above sea level.

To spring, Albinoni and the smell of cow manure,

the thin blades of grass vibrating in the wind.

To a father and son playing a sonata for four hands

as shadows march, twenty strong, over the keys.


To the swift shadow of a hawk as it slides heavily over flesh andfur

waiting for me to depart.

To the furry creature moving about

in the topmost branches.

To the boat that disappears

quietly around the bend.

To the hoaxes of transubstantiation, chamomile,

and fur-lined coats.

To the twelve-year-old who ran away from home

and spent a sleepless night by the sea.

To the intricate weave of vines.

To the architecture of lion.

To twins wrestling inside the womb, the surgeon’s heartbeat,

the barking dog, the rustling of trees.

To the boy who cries wolf.

To the wolf.

                                ―Norman Minnick