The Voice of God

Until this morning, I have never equated
the overly-enthusiastic crowing of our neighbor's rooster,
who lives just beyond our bedroom window,
with the voice of God. 
Heard from a distance, he might sound charming,
quaint, nostalgic even, like some far-off
church bell calling the faithful to meeting.

Up close, he is loud. And insistent.
And, after living near him for so long, 
I can recognize his voice among the throng
of other roosters in the area.
Until this morning, I have never equated
his raucous, before-the-dawn, persistent,
rooster song with a call to Morning Prayer.
Nor, as he mysteriously begins again
a couple of hours before dusk, 
as an invitation to Compline. 

In the spring, his calling drowns out
the early morning birdsong I strain to hear
and, as the late-summer's soft droning
of crickets and katydids fills the background,
his crowing dominates the airways.
Morning in and evening out, in all seasons
and through all sorts of weather,
his voice opens and closes each and every day.
And, just as reliably, as I journey through each of these days,
he often interrupts the flow of my thoughts with
with his vigorous, punctuated reminders of his presence,
assuring me, sometimes inconveniently,
that whether he is vocalizing or not, 
he is always there,
always present,
unseen, perhaps, but
always hovering in the background. 

I have never thought of the rooster's crowing
as the voice of God.
Now I know better.