I don't see sparrows anymore. I have memories of them as a child, watching them scattered on the playground, pecking seed from between the cracks of rough gravel. The little speckled things, hopping about, just doing what they do. Sparrows are not like magpies; birds to fear or avoid, shocking black and swooping, low and fast. Sparrows are not like pidgeons; cumbersome and ungainly, tattered and slow. Sparrows are spritely fellows, speckled brown, soft and petite.
Through the distorted liquid of my memories I can see them everywhere, from the break of day to the end of night. They dust the sky with their wings, sparks of joyous energy, to and fro. Sometimes I would tear crusts from sandwiches, toss them to the ground, chunks of wholegrain smeared with peanut-butter. The sparrows would gather about, supping on the gift politely. Sparrows were nice little things, happy just to be dining, not ferocious and squawking like seagulls; harping at each other over inflated chests.
Where have they gone? Now all I see is city.
