Let Everything that Breathes

by Stephen Damon

 

In the predawn darkness

He sees a subtle shape

Hidden beneath a tree

A redwood carving of St. Francis

Now splintered, weathered gray

Holding a broken washing bowl.

He listens to crickets

Chatting back and forth

In steady rhythmic rhyme

And to a mourning dove

Chanting Oo-wah-hooo

Of an ancient solitude.

In the distance a songbird

Calls to his brothers and sisters

Who will gather

In every feather of color

And every manner of song

For morning service.

Together, they will make

A joyful noise.

Bows,

Stephen