Been a while since I wrote any of these. About time I got back into the habit.

“Your spirit’s gone walkin’,” the sparrow says, and flits to another branch. Tail-flick; wing-ruffle. Settle. “Where’s it gone off to, then?”

“Dunno,” says I. Snowflakes drift down, sourceless. Sun’s gone away. Gettin’ cold, cold as icicle-bones, as sap gone syrup-sluggish. Gettin’ hard to move, some, but it ain’t gone yet. Still some life in me, a little. Enough.

“Better find it,” says the sparrow, almost, but words are fragile as bird-bones when they crunch ‘twixt my teeth, all steamy-blood and marrow-hot.

Ain’t got no spirit just now, but ‘til mine comes walkin’ home, sparrow-soul’ll do.