Sparrows who come to live in our rafters, here you are welcome to nest. When you fly, will you take with you the undigested weight of the earth? I am not the mighty soul who remembers each one of you falling, but I, I can give you a place for your homes in the hallways above me, welcome your conversations and song into the courtyard in need of trickling water. Your voice taught the stream how to sing. Your Avian voices are water to olive groves, and to orange trees you are the crown. Do you hear all we say here below of you, Sparrows? You follow us into cities to watch over the wanderers, we without wings, who think they must fight to know God. You know a better way, in the trees, travelers of the wings. For you the Creator plucks feathers from Her own breast. Unafraid of the heat or the sun or the winds of the seasons, you are familiar, dear sparrows, to the gardenia of day, to purple jasmine’s desert night. Come, friend of the sunflower, and take with you our prayers and oblations, small birds, those who dip close to the walking world, that we too will find the house of the morning, that we will make our nest in the garden at dawn. Feathers of stained glass, I implore you, remember me who have not any wings, but two legs and full heart to walk to the daybreak of birdsong.
Written at the Unitarian Universalist Church of Fresno, California, July 17th 2016
Photo by susannp4, CC0 Creative Commons Public Domain, Pixabay.com