The Question

What I fear most when I appear at the gates of Heaven is a question:
“My son, why did you kill the sparrow?”

I raised my BB gun and aimed;
At the end of the cold steel barrel
sat the sparrow singing its song
of joy, and happiness, and innocence;
I pulled the trigger and let fly the BB;
The golden pellet raced through the space
of a moment and entered the sparrow’s
soft, downy white breast and raised
a puff of tiny, fluffy feathers;
Then time slowed to a motion so fluid
I could see the tiny red spot appear
and spread on that harmless, flawless
Then my world grew quiet when the singing
stopped as Life flew from the tiny breast,
And I grew somber as I watched the
little bird fall dead from its perch and lay
lifeless on the cold, hard dirty surface of
the living Earth.
And I understood at ten years old
how precious Life is and how easily

“I don’t know why I killed the Sparrow, Lord.”

29 thoughts on “The Question

  1. My kids make fun of me swerving for birds on quiet sidestreets. Once, (prior) one didn’t fly away as assumed… 😒 The feathers in the grill traumatized me.


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