You have whispered
in the day’s ear
of your willingness
to be graced

and you are given—
you are given—

the elixir of thrush
at dawn and dusk
transforming light’s emergence
or fade

Keeping you on course
the pair of rose-breasted grosbeaks
arrives, reminding you
that beauty
conspires with form
and flies from elsewhere,
landing just outside
the kitchen window
where you wash the dishes
while watching the squirrel
watch you back,
front paws furled into chest
as if in prayer or supplication.

The light eventually leaves, and in its absence
darkness rises from its knees
to whisper in your ear
its unrelenting grace—

the rasping hiss of fox on prowl,
the owl’s O’s of rhythmic sound
disintegrating into silence
just before the rabbit’s scream rises.

You gather the offerings
into your heart,
affirming that—

YOU sing the light
YOU rent the air
YOU are the knife.

Where will you encounter
honest terror?

And where the tender will-o-wisp of hope,
flickering in the dark forest?

© Sandy Long