They have claimed the privet hedge. Their small bodies

flit in and out of the impossible spaces between

the leaves — precision is the word you’d use for that

kind of accuracy. There are dozens of them, arcing

into the bush, their squawks like the chatter

of my children, a cacophony of excited mewlings.

There is no name for the way they’ve stained 

the leaves with excrement, how it rivers in rivulets

against each waxy frond, chalky. If they were gulls,

shadows on the glistening sea, perched on the jagged

ribs of cliffs, we would call it guano, the acidic remains

that mark their existence. Of course, everything is Romance

when it comes to the sea, even the waves have names,

the way they crest, reach up toward the sun, then pool

back into a salty bed — longitudinal, transverse, orbital.

Who can blame them for their chatter, for the music

of their dissatisfaction? For trying to find a sound

to give to their offering back to nature, for having bodies

not prized for the wealth of their shit. For being 

like the rest of us, producers of waste no one wants.

*Host: the collective noun for a group of sparrows