Oblation

I will pour out my spirit upon every sort of flesh

                                          Acts 2:17

As the sky lightens

an hour before the sun bleeds

on a wide beam of horizon,

there's a singular bird.

 

Small and metrical,

far from her choir.

 

The gift of My Father

trebled in the wild throat

of a scrub wren.

 

She sings among leaves

of the Forsythia. And like the bush

veiled in  faint cobwebs

or  pages of an Old Book --

 

some of her feathers

are dusty yellow, worn

and thumbed by a soft wind.