An Ode to the Sparrow

You are not Keats' sweet nightingale, 
Nor are you Shelleyan skylark, 
Not so exotic, I work small scale, 
O, muse of mine, my creative spark.

Those were the days our homes had trees, 
Crows and sparrows often took perch, 
Chirps and caws never seemed to cease, 
Whence they came, one didn't have to search. 

Gone are the trees, so are your homes, 
The crow has borne the changed weather, 
You're now mythic, much like gnomes, 
Ages since I saw your feather. 

We are alike, unknown voices, 
Born to enjoy the quietude, 
Pangs of growth are raising noises, 
Cacophony, not quite etude. 

Deciding to give us a miss, 
You took flight, in that very sense,  
Greater men not taking amiss, 
Am poorer by your absence. 

To the world, we are commoners, 
Our plumes are unknown, lacking hue, 
Fading into void, sans honours, 
After we are gone, none will rue. 

Were you to return when silence falls, 
Unlikely my ilk would take note, 
Wiser to stay where Nature calls,  
Where saneness' semblance stays afloat.

Great bards sang odes about great birds, 
None so far spared you a wee thought, 
I am but, a cobbler of words, 
Rhyming on lessons life has taught. 

Now you have your ode, spry sparrow, 
Return the favour at long last, 
Shed not a tear of sorrow, 
Chirp in my name when I am past.