The Day’s First Utterance *

First written for Oasis Ministries for Spiritual Formation's Prayer Notes.

Every morning,
before dark gives way to dawn,
a first voice greets
the day.

This morning,
the wood thrush’s melody
floats out of the woodlands
and across the field.
Other mornings, the peewee’s
plaintive song whispers
the day’s beginning,
or the cardinal’s piercing whistle
awakens the chorus,
or the catbird’s sleepy chatter
gently rouses
his companions.
 
Some mornings the first voice
is a last voice from
the night before...
the green frog still in the mood to party
or the field cricket not yet settled
into daytime sleep
or the great-horned owlet
begging one more morsel.
 
Some mornings’ first murmurings
are the whoosh of wind in the spruces
or the sigh of the rushing creek

running high,
or the pattering of a gentle overnight rain.
 
Every morning,
before dark gives way to dawn,
the Voice within all voices
beckons,
awakening
and welcoming us
into the
day.

 
*Title from a line by J. Philip Newell in Celtic Benediction, Saturday Morning Prayer.

Fuzzy

 

Heavy is the air
and the dew upon the mountain mint
and spider silk.
No breath of wind to
keep the fog at bay.

Quiet is the birdsong
and the thrumming insect chorus
and the green frogs.
Only the rooster
boldly greets the day.

Welcome are the bees
and their feeding on the fennel
and the phlox. Yet
their numbers dwindle
and slowly slip away.

Enshrouded is the path
and the road that runs before us.
Wearily we walk
searching for the way.

Sanctuary

Undecided, yet again
the tree swallows
swoop toward the hanging gourd's
entrance hole,
investigating and resuming flight
in one fluid motion.
Satisfied, they scavenge
straw from the garden 
and hay from the goat pen
and, nest completed,
she settles in to brood
the eggs that will
become her
children.

Unperturbed, motionless
in the mown path
through the wet meadow,
the meandering wood turtle
appears comfortably
at home.
Mouth smeared with slugs,
he gazes intently as I pass
before resuming
his foraging
and his
travels.

Undeterred, the solitary
doe glances my way
as she browses
the field.
Stepping gingerly
across uneven ground,
she nips at the spicebush
and samples the grasses,
the goldenrod and asters.
Perhaps she will
bring her
fawn.

Unbidden, they graze
unfamiliar territory.
Young groundhogs now
out on their own
have discovered the hedgerow.
And the vegetable patch.
Nimbly, they crawl
over, under and through fences
to access the sustenance
they need to grow,
and later,
hibernate.

Undaunted, curious
baby rabbits roam
the yard 
nibbling oxalis, violets, grasses
and fallen apples,
sometimes sitting 
in the old magnolia's shade
Startled,
they freeze,
watching warily for danger,
and the need
to flee.

Uncertain, the new
barn swallows sit 
side by side
on a cable above the goats.
Amid undecipherable twitterings and
nervous aerial acrobatics
they agree to set up
housekeeping.
After incubating her eggs
on a beam above the hay bales,
the all-consuming frenzy 
of feeding babies
will commence.

Wild ones
know nothing of land deeds,
of property lines 
or asking permission before
taking up residence. 
In this refuge
all are welcome.
In this refuge
squatter's rights
reign.