musings of a front-porch priest

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musings of a front-porch priest

I hope in heaven there are thunderstorms,
the kind that coming cause a blue-egg sky
to cloak the waiting world in mouse-skin gray.
Tonight, the mottled robins out front all eye
the soaking soil, anticipating worms
they know must rise for air then scatter streets
to punctuate the morning's pavement page.
On bouncing branch, a blood-drop cardinal quakes   
in spittled breeze as pinky-finger grubs
go knuckling across the yard with rhythmic flex.
They cork the cardinal’s yellow beak and plug
his throat in a feathered flash of red. He breaks
their jelly backs, then bloated, flutters back     
to perch his limb. I hope that heaven is big —
big enough to hold this holy wildness.


- published in Eunoia Review

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