Winged thought. Wish made tangible.
Yes, the towhee is God’s musing
cast to ether. It drops to the ground
in its black hood, then stutters
backward, scratching the leaves,
distracting the strangers it startled
out of their deft silence. As in: Do you see
the bird that could be anyone’s fate
hurled skyward? And if so, where is the one
whose chest has opened like heaven’s
twin doors? Who built within him
the two wings and the rusted flanks,
bare and ringing? A birder would look
for the mate. Its dull nest. But not the boy
who, if he knew the word sanctuary
would say, Where? to the sparrow
that wears its breast like an iron plate. Surely
a bird is heaven’s closer god and would listen:
these clouds, these nodding trees,
and floating, still, in the pond below, the boy
in his striped shirt, whistling.