In The Fullness of Time

 Sharing these thoughts is difficult in these days of ecological and man-made ruin. And yet, at the same time it feels right to acknowledge and be grateful that, in this small corner of the world, the land and its creatures continue on, for now, unimpeded. 

The chattering is non-stop,
recently fledged house wrens
congregating in the bushes,
asking their many questions
of the world.
The crickets' and katydids' song, 
emanating from the trees and old
fields that surround the house,
is constant, too,
enfolding,
like the Presence of God,
which, of course, it is.

Catbirds, readying to go,
gorge on the pokeberries
and this morning an unexpected
white-eyed vireo,
on his way to somewhere,
forages in the old apple tree,
gleaning from what this piece
of his world has
to offer.

Hummingbirds are on the jewelweed, 
their tiny tummies laying down the
fat that will fuel their long, 
upcoming journey
and
newly emerged Monarch's,
sipping from phlox and zinnias, 
prepare for a pilgrimage
that will take them
far into the
unknown.

All of us,
the wild things and I,
are waiting for what comes next.
And each of us,
the wild things and I,
are sustained
and supported
by the late-summer abundance
that has come
in the fullness
of time.

Worship Without Words

I have joined them here this morning, 
the annual cicadas in the woods 
across the street. Worship has
no words here,
no shoulds,
only the ongoing
crescendo and decrescendo
of gratitude for life.
And for place.
Beneath the thrumming of cicadas and
the chipping of catbird young,
the woods are still, 
expectant,
waiting.

It is written that the Spirit moves
where it will,
like the wind winding
through the shadows
where I sit.
This moment, the Spirit 
has come,
blessing the ordinary life
of all who live among
the trees,
blessing the communion
between them and
the Eternal
and me.