Song Sparrow, House Sparrow

Song sparrow, house sparrow— 
do your names ever get mistaken 

for sorrow? With your chestnut 
brown or your grey cap, you fly

in and out of the eaves, forage
in the dirt. One of you sings, 

tireless, through the year. One 
of you hops on the ground then 

tucks your bill beneath your 
feathers. I don't know the meaning

of the sounds you make— a few phrases 
ending with a trill, a series of chirrups  

— but I don't hear the sound of grief
or wounding until I myself am sad.