Encores

I still pray for time—for the stretch
of an egret's skyward plume before the quick,
clean jab in the water, for one more rousing
song after the final curtain call.
I hedge my bets in the sun's
darker coloring— in red skies at night,
and not in the morning's warnings.
Under the eaves, the house 
sparrows keep up their constant
improvising. Depending on the mood, they
are either on guard and touchy, or signaling 
an ongoing optimism—for their young  
to fledge, for the warm days of summer 
holding winter a litle more at bay.