v3

No one quite notices the little sparrow darting in and out of the eaves of the roof at the bus stop, 

not the lady working on her laptop while waiting for the bus,

not the old man with the Super Mario schoolbag, holding his grandson's hand,

not the jogger pounding the pavement to the beat of the music in her ears,

not the gentleman walking his golden retriever with the non-stop wagging tail, 

not the driver waiting for stragglers flagging his bus down from a 100 meters away,

not the teenagers shoving one another, tumbling their way to school

and not the rest scrolling their phones,

they don't see anything else actually. 

Meanwhile the bird flies to and fro,  carrying twigs and dried leaves

from the bushes behind the bus stop,

and from the trees all the way across the road,

her twittering the high notes to complement the bass of this

morning's traffic. 

Tiny unseen mouths chirp in response to every flight of hers, 

her wings parting the air around them to say they live, they matter. 

The sparrow busy building its nest in the crevices of the bus-stop 

and us, building ours in each nook of our high rise flats, 

we are not always aware of the other, 

our petty squabbles,

tender kisses,

the hungry mouths we feed,

the news we share of our days

spent outside this nest 

to fortify it,

and our tired caresses at day's end.

To us, she is just another bird. 

To her we are just part of her surroundings.

Each to its own and 

yet 

we are together, a community.

other notes ? 

1. how the dame drama may be unfolding in each nest