Between Sparrow and Siren

The sky is bruised peach—

a strange kind of soft,

like fruit left too long in the sun.

I sit with legs stretched on the mirpeset,

coffee cooling in a chipped mug,

watching the air move—not yet from sirens,

but from wings.

Birds dart like questions across the sky,

sparrows mostly,

bodies so light they seem to be

made of paper and breath.

They cut through the thickness

that drapes the atmosphere like a wet cloth.

Their motion disturbs the hush,

as if even they can’t bear

the stillness that gathers

just before.

The air vibrates with tension—

not yet fear,

but a held breath of anticipation.

It smells like iron,

like warm concrete,

like the lemons crushed under our neighbor’s tree.

There’s a rhythm in the wind,

the faint percussion of distant unrest.

It brushes my cheek

as if to say 

get ready.

The birds know.

They wheel sharper now,

tails slicing sky blue,

bodies shimmering in the light

that filters weak and yellow

through the haze.

Their wings don’t flap, they shiver.

Each tremor sends ripples

through the atmosphere,

and I feel them on my skin—

like chills from old memories

that echo too closely

to now. 

Then—

the awaited siren.

A long wail that cleaves through the sanctity of Shabbat.

It unbuttons the silence,

it unravels time.

It’s never just a sound,

but a muscle memory.

A summoning.

A splinter down the spine.

Below, the street erupts—

not in flame,

but in motion.

A father sprints past,

both hands on the handle

of a blue stroller that jerks over the uneven Nachlaot pavement.

The baby blinks up at the sky,

unaware of the weight

his father drags behind his ribs.

I see the father’s face—

jaw clenched, eyes wide,

searching for a shelter,

a sign,

a reason.

His kippah slips back as he runs,

and his arm flails out to catch it,

to keep something

anything

from falling.

I press my hand against my heart as if I can hold it all—

this man and his child,

and the birds,

and the broken air,

and the breath I forgot to exhale.

There are no explosions yet,

but something has already shattered

in the stillness

between one sparrow’s wingbeat

and the next.