I heard you --
calling out from the top most branches
of the transplanted maple that was
driven four hours over mountains
and dug into the bed of my back yard.
Perching there --
you surveyed all things around you;
children splashing in the neighbour's pool,
orchard trees fresh sprayed with dormant oil,
lawn mown and edged and irrigated,
and me --
dozing in the late day sun,
book open in my lap, a brief
escape from earthbound thoughts.
You roused me --
and I saw your winged song take flight…
and then recalled that joy
is often found
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This reminds me of a William Blake poem (title escapes me). Essence is that if we grasp the winged joy and try to possess it, it escapes us, but if we let it go, it is ours.
I think in your repose you have been given new, gifted insights into those things created by our wonderful Lord's hand.