Sparrows

A few flakes of snow

like crumbled bread

on the sidewalk:

at the trolley stop

three sparrows

are picking at other,

nearly invisible crumbs.

What keeps them alive?

I brush from my hands

the remains of a cookie.

Across the tracks

an old man eats

potato chips, scattering

a few on his bench.

When we leave,

the sparrow will take in

some of my world and his,

then wing their way

to another stop,

gathering pieces of people

I'll never meet,

linking us as they turn

our loneliness

into flight.