top of page
  • Writer's pictureAdmin

The Language of Sparrows

Your sister is dead. We plant seedlings by her grave in April, when Spring seduces with all its promise, moisten the ground with a jug of water and say how, years from now, a bush will burst and flower, be home to a family of sparrows, each knowing the other by name. I ask you if birds have names, like Alice, Brent, Jessica and James, if mother and father bird call them in when it rains, say settle here in branches amid the leaves that keep you dry – not in English, mind you, or any other human tongue but in the language of sparrows; each trill, each warbling, a repartee, a crafted conversation of the minds.

I then notice that we never see the birds when it rains, how they disappear in downpours, seeking shelter in something we simply cannot see. When we’re old, when we come to remember the loved one that you’ve lost, they’ll be shielded in our shrub, not a short and stunted one, but a grand, blessed growth, like the one that spoke to Moses, aflame, uttering I AM WHO I AM, one that towers, dense with green, a monument

to the sister you treasured and to the birds that she adored, naming the formerly fallowed, hallowed, sacred, remove your shoes, Spirits and Sparrows dwell and sibilate secrets we’re unworthy to hear.

Andreas Gripp

Andreas Gripp

3 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All


bottom of page