Overhead, the thin high whistle of a tree sparrow—

Does it mean the gods are always watching,
does it mean You there, don’t get too happy, too proud,

too comfortable, too far ahead of yourself? Does it mean
abandon all hope for no good deed goes unpunished,
and only the fat, well-heeled, well-fed, undeservedly

happy are sure to get that reward plus bonus they don’t
even need? Perhaps I have thrown caution out the window
and forgotten how to be circumspect. Perhaps

the bittersweet blooms, the new buds of hydrangea pushing
out from winter’s brown bramble have plucked at a nerve—
and also the speckled blue eggs only big as my thumb

that some snake, trawling the garden, must have found.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.