Into The Dark
Before first light — while stars still hike the night,
a song mezzos across roofs,
topples into the courtyard
from a throat whose innocent feathered amazement praises
what’s to come,
not the sun
but the coming
once again as never before,
each note, fresh as a warble from a creek.
O, bird of dawn, I too pray at such an hour
while your orisons careen
among crows’ caws and minute cheeps
that signal your aria as done.
It is not done.
When planets and stars are shrapnel,
still your spangled song leads the dawn parade,
flings its baton into the blackest sky
to remind God again that everything thanks Him.
That it never ends.
That everything was, first, the word.
And the word was Thanks.
- Bruce Moody