“and trucked my freight away under birdsong…”

Scavengers… that’s really all they are.  A sesame seed here, toast crumb tumbling to the ground there–but the tweets!  Ah, if it weren’t for the chirping, tweeting descent by wings so animated and lively;  well, if not for that, perhaps I’d put my foot down.  But how could I?

These sparrows of the street, in hopping clusters around the legs of the cafe table outside, know an easy eat.  And so they scavenge…  no, “clean up”, I guess.  Are they really any different than the lumbering street cleaner polishing the granite curbs along Main Street as I drove into town this morning?

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Gospel Hill Road received a fresh coating of oil and stone the other day.  Of course, it’s a way to seal the road, but that “like new” look lasts but just a few days.  I missed the event, since I was at work, but the job certainly was done by far fewer than 6,000 men, unlike the boulevard reconstruction above in San Francisco, circa 1933.

And yet, musing over  R. T. Smith’s poem, Scavenging the Wall, poked a bit at some themes rattling around in the hollow cavity on my shoulders.

So I gathered
what I could, scooped them into the bed

and trucked my freight away under birdsong
in my own life’s autumn.

“Life’s autumn”… yes, that’s it. And the sparrows…  still singing, still scavenging.