The Punctuality of Sparrows

The birds are patient, watching
the minute hand, that measure
of time our young no longer
understand, one tiny throat
starts at the stroke of five,
and cacophony commences,
They flit about in the leaves
of the Mango tree a foot
or so outside my window,
if I beg them to change when
they squeal and rattle about,
I can put that titter to use,
Red Maya, be my alarm clock.