Morning’s first song, evening’s final call, winged creatures, colors painted into trees, starkly outlined or mere smudges, streaks of sapphire, orange bursts of breasts.
Their songs, symphonic reeds, trills waking us at daybreak, our 5:00 a.m. alarm. Or sighs, sweeping swirls across skies in evening’s mist, a goodnight kiss.
I wonder if a bird struck down, sings before its spirit escapes an unexpected battle.
On an early morning jog, I found a wren, eyes closed, on the sidewalk. I scooped it up and laid it at the base of a tree then scanned the block for a wildflower. It was too early for the dandelions to be awake but a closed Taraxacum is better than none.
As I reached down to pluck it from the wet grass, there beside, on its side, eyes closed, too, lay a robin. For two sleeping birds, I picked two sleeping dandelions.
May we, like our winged friends, be an offering with actions like morning songs or evening arias, awakening, not angering, hearts with color-filled glimpses of God’s well-blended Presence.