Sparrows

Once, it was so: the fragrance of pine needles at the porch, wind-stoked, 

bearing the sting of the finite. I Considered the sparrows in those branches as prisms, cold, refracting on our wrought iron doors, acknowledging that any radiance they may have spilled was not for my benefit. 

Knowledge was cloaked in the taste of honey, so effortless, it took my breath away.

I knew, ultimately, I would crave a different life path. And so, I began to hunger for it.