God must have wept the day He cracked
the clay to reveal your voice, little bird.
… and God must have sadly spoken you,
for your brown eyes would someday fall.

I can see blue mountains, I can see the sky.
I see you, sparrow, rising, then falling to 
my cry.
I see my cloud, arresting on the hollow, and
the coal fire smoking, circling high.
It is a far better world, knowing songs like 
yours abide—

—and she spied His little eye.