Curious, You Met Him at the Pond

It would have taken cannonfire
to keep from amalgamating
our differences: you, young
and blood-red sparrow pecking
the ground for bedding; I:
the ant crawling up to find you,
stinger ready, army of brothers
left way behind, in some dirt
fortress. I climbed your beak
and demanded pity, you took me
for a blur of wind torn into
the wrong direction, a mad
time to spread your wings and
talk philosophy with your father,
down at the pond, its murk cool.