Out for a deadbolt， light bulbs

    and two-by-fours， I find a flock

    of sparrows safe from hawks¹

    and weather under the roof

    of Lowe's amazing discount

    store. They skitter from the racks

    of stockpiled posts and hoses

    to a spill of winter birdseed

    on the concrete floor. How

    they know to forage² here，

    I can't guess， but the automatic

    door is close enough，

    and we've had a week

    of storms. They are， after all，

    ubiquitous， though poor，

    their only song an irritating

    noise， and yet they soar

    to offer， amid hardware， rope

    and handyman brochures，

    some relief， as if a flurry

    of notes from Mozart swirled³

    from seed to ceiling， entreating⁴

    us to set aside our evening

    chores and take grace where

    we find it， saying it is possible，

    even in this month of flood，

    blackout and frustration⁵，

    to float once more on sheer

    survival and the shadowy

    bliss⁶ we exist to explore.