With the Birds Again
Alexander Etheridge
Every Time here in the dense brush at twilight,
little birds all chatter at once—they know dark
comes on slowly, bringing with it shreds
of eternity. They know a road to the shadows of
Heaven stretches out in us like a secret. This
is the waking fable, they say, this is the living
memory our memories forget. Night opens around us
like a charcoal drawing, and the dusty sparrows
grow still as the ruins of an ancient cathedral.
Joy is clustered with grief inside us, and our prayers
blow softly apart like pollen grains. We follow a path
to the last leaves, and we know death begins slowly,
down in the roots. We’re linked by a thread of fear
and hope. A hailstorm moves from heart to heart—
But an unseen light shepherds us, even through agonies
and decay, something elemental in us watches
the moons of God. We walk out over black and stony
riverbeds, imagining a kinder world. Through the hunger
and desolation we remember an April dream
the forest had, and our faith is swept clean
of doubt. The birds fly out once more, quiet as stars,
older and each alone—purer and peaceful again.
