It’s early enough that noise
is still the purview of the street,

no voices, only the exhaust
of a dryer vent, a crow’s

gutter-landing scrape,
the pangs of a parked car’s

engine settling.  I walk
the way I used to walk,

I used to live here,
on this street

where sparrows fight
over a crumb of bread.

Or maybe
they’re sharing it,

it’s hard to say.
Someone has defaced

every sign reading NO
anything with the addition

you can’t have nice things.
Well, sure, a bird

in the hand is worth
two in the bush,

but where does a bird
belong, now, really?