Seven sparrows on the elevator cables,
stretching slight to rigor mortis of the wingspan.
Seven sparrows freezing in formation, framed by bleak leaves
of frosting concrete, branching rebar like the fingers
of a loving God; you see, this is what it means
to live in the world, not on it. This is what it
means to be meek, as winds sweep subtle under-
standing; ephemeral as sparrows clutch existence
seven different ways, each one of them a lesson
in the mysteries of life, to men who seek the
Kingdom of Heaven over tired, red lunchpails.