Sparrows

Close birds,
twitching brown
puffs of beaked life,
they inch forward
on nervous yellow claws.
The urgency in their
bean black eyes is real.
They want the bread,
the crumbs, the contents
of the paper bag from
which I eat.
They have wordlessly
spread the word
and many of them come,
flying in on wings
that flicker madly
in the sun.
Is there anything
in this life I want
as much
as these birds do?