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I
French fries lay strewn in the sun on asphalt under
a traffic light arm, just barely in the tire tracks.
Some are flat smushed. Two starlings,
spotted white and seemingly tailless, dart
back and forth from safety to grab oily morsels
in between speeding car tires.
I don’t see any sparrows doing this, and I realize
how often I risk my life for french fries
when I’m meant to be a sparrow flitting
over fields of dressed lilies to rest on sunflowers
toppling with seeds my good Creator left for me.
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