The mystery of the sparrow

Whether it is pecking at the bathroom glass ,all the time or only when I go there is my mystery. What is the mystery in  sparrow’s mind about the bathroom visitors , their bodies wet in the knowledge of a pecking sparrow?

A sparrow tirelessly pecking at own reflection is mystery , set against futility of its effort. How the bird can be stupid enough to peck at own reflection, disregarding past failures is mystery that overwhelms bathing bodies.

I cannot look in its eyes ,set too high and tiny, only sense a light squirm in its body as I enter. Overwhelmed by no mystery it squirms ever so  lightly which is the same each time I enter its space.

The quest for mysteries is mine, not sparrow’s.

Super moon

Through this window the night touches and makes us one with the super-moon ,above trees now in sleep, leaves at rest ,having touched the super moon in clouds.

This is the very chamber , our own space ,our Raum , a crow that robs us of cities ,their rubble to make cement sculptures of ancients, our moms who had caused our existences , now taking yearly forms of crows on speckled walls, for rice balls smoothly rounded to sonorous chants.

This is a space of things, our emptiness ,a hollow of our bricks, future sculptures in rubble , space between them and now that connects all things to a super moon ,a powdery space still hosting our matter.

Red river flowers

It was body to be bewildered. We shuffled our eyes under stairs .There sat our darkness in chairs.

The chairs sat on unmindful, with bewilderment in between. Bewilderment went up and down a phone.

World might have been ,too .World is body, God -stopped. It had now no red river flowers.

Bewilderment gasped on air, eyes turned glass after bewildered. There was no more bewilderment.