sparrow songs: a haibun

When I was a child, our rusted roof is usually dotted with sparrows looking for leftover rice. Hop. Hop. Hopping every morning. Singing to the tune of my mother’s waking up pots. We are pardoned from the persimmon leaves of fall. The spooky skeletons of winter. However, our pockets are filled with flood that knocks, holding hands with August, cool northeast monsoon wind sneaking on its back. It is the season of champorado, our chocolate rice porridge, accompanied by the fresh sun-dried fish, carrying the smell of a good morning and my mother’s love.

Sparrows sing a call
for sticky morn rice porridge,
as its feathers dry.

©2022 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

Back at it after more than a month. Here’s to writing prompts that delight the memories of a village child. ❤

18 thoughts on “sparrow songs: a haibun”

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