A sparrow flew overhead, its tawny underbelly grazing a wayward leaf. Surely this dainty creature meant to escape this frigid clime. Perhaps the sudden onset of winter caught her as much off guard as your suddenly cold demeanor caught me. As she wheeled through the sky I wondered where she might land. I wondered her intentions, or if she even owned the capability to intend at all. More than likely she merely wound around the world on instinct, chasing the sun like the moon rising and setting without pause or recourse, day after day, night after night.

I wondered your intentions, and conversely, if you wielded the desire to intend anything at all. Perhaps you just float through life on whims and instincts, chasing skirts as an Autumn gale chases sienna leaves, leaving the trees naked and bare; leaving them cold and alone.

Above me, the sparrow alit on an already stark branch, the end of which jutted out in a jagged mess-- presumably some damage from one of the many recent storms. She sat there. She didn't sing or preen. She just sat there. Once, I almost thought she looked at me; almost thought she was wondering what I was wondering. Almost.

You sat there. You didn't apologize or make excuses. You just sat there. Once, I almost thought you looked at me; once I almost thought you wondered what I was wondering. Once. Almost. Almost. Once.

And I sat there. Staring. Staring at her. Staring at you. Never looking at myself. I never wondered what I intended or what I was truly wondering, deep down in the honest depths where I loathe to go. Never. Not almost. Not once. Never.

Then she flew away. And you flew away. So I sat there, naked and bare, cold and alone as the trees in winter. Not because of her. Not because of you. Because of me.