cries up the sun rise.
Not the red-feathered cock
who’s been consigned
to the farm
round these parts.
They used to roost freely
in the trees in Rancho Cordova.
Now you need a hen permit,
maximum of six and no roosters.
Our neighborhood turkeys
have gone elsewhere for now,
no more gurgling and gobbling
as the toms hassle the hens
up and down the street.
Just the choruses of juncos,
wrens, and thrushes,
the squawk of crows
and the screech of jays.
I long for the sweet songs
of robins when they
pass through in March.
I was sitting on the sun porch
a few days ago as we were
discussing the gospel of Luke
where Jesus ponders what
the kingdom of God is like.
He says it is like a mustard seed
tossed into a garden that waxed
and grew into a great tree
where many birds of the air
nested in its branches.
Every ten or fifteen seconds
I heard a woodpecker knocking
high up where one of the
redwoods had snapped
in a windstorm last spring.
Who’s there? I wondered.
Just for a moment.
It was God, always there
when you listen.
