by Mary Harwell Sayler
The cardinals convene the color of the day.
Robed in red, they pronounce a benediction
over cawing crow and squawking jay –
an ecumenical procession of beak and plume.
Two tiny titmice, cowled like monks,
begin to chant, and a pair of mourning doves
peck flat wafer seeds from little chunks
of ground, keeping time to a hymnal tune.
A brown thrasher thrashes in a purifying pool,
and into this God-given school of earth and sky –
on my most mid-weak day – I
come to be quiet and commune.
© 2012, Mary Harwell Sayler, all rights reserved. “Congregation” originally saw print November, 1998 in the Central Florida Episcopalian.