By Joanne Lowery

After reading a book about sparrows
I see leaves circle outside my window
in the L-shaped recess of the house.

Both sides have windows, only one
with a woman watching leaves
swirl like swallows following

themselves the way our words
sequence down our throats.
We swallow. The birds rise up

like leaves in circles
hemmed by a brick nook of walls
glassed with panes.

The birds and leaves settle
through the early spring air.
I take my seat. The book

falls open-winged to the floor
beneath the view. Outside
March goes for a spin.

Inside I wish them well:
sparrows and leaves, spin
and flight, brick and air,

my dizzy thoughts.
Outside: a cyclone

undoing a nest.

Joanne Lowery's poems have appeared in many literary magazines, including Birmingham Poetry Review, Rattle, Slant, Cottonwood, and Poetry East. Her most recent collection is the chapbook Scything published by FutureCycle Press. She lives in Michigan.

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