The Winged Rode Each Wave

 

The Winged Rode Each Wave

(“But she answered and said to Him, ‘Yes, Lord, but even the dogs under the table feed on the children’s crumbs.’” Mark 7:28)

The rains would not blow past us,
easterly and swift.
The days simply wrapped us in
bogs and mud and mist.
There were birds that pecked upon the earth,
taking their chances between squalls and raindrops
to find life where no one else looked
to feed their babies whimpering in their nests.

They would not be denied (though we humans
stayed inside). The Master of Water (seas and oceans,
lakes and rivers, clouds and rain) seemed to prevent them
from gathering a to-go meal for home.

The rains settled, dully silvered in the air.
The rains ganged up on the unsuspecting ground,
(though the snow from a week before should have
been a siren of things to come).
The puddles overflowed, the rivulets flowed from driveway
to side yard
to the burn pile from autumn awaiting the flame.

The wind rounded the corner, up and then down,
the Columbia exerting its will on congregants waving their
distended arms, a parade with nowhere to go.

But the winged rode each wave, songbirds soaring like
miniature birds of prey. The backyard was dotted
with sparrows and robins
who would not take rain or snow
as an answer
but met each moment on its own terms.