No sparrows lost

Where do they go, the tiny ones,
where do they stay
under the sapless sun?

As all the leaves fly
and turn to moldy soil
and all smiles fall from our faces
(we leave them back home
to keep the frost at bay)
we miss familiar movements
in the corners of our eyes.

Shadows project below
the geese on strong wings,
soaring for southern suns.

Doves ball up and beg for charity,
counting on their comic puff.

The sparrows are nowhere to be found.

But as winter concludes her glacial kiss,
eager beaked faces
always peek from hiding places
never any sorrow traces
in their songs of spring.

Where do they stay, the tiny ones,
where do they come from
when the cold is on the run?