The Thing With Feathers

She was right—
hope is a fluttery thing,
quick
darting
camouflaged against the boughs
swooping
only briefly soaring
timid
never still for long.
Fear, too, flutters,
more like a bat
than a sparrow,
silent
predatory
hidden.

I have never seen a bat in daytime,
but in summer twilight,
as darkness steals over the streets,
the bats come out to play.
For that matter,
I have never seen sparrows
fly at night.
Either one
will light on my branches
taking turns
clinging with clawed feet
to my little heart.

Oh, for deep roots
and a well-watered garden,
a full moon
and a starry sky,
and at dawn,
glory,
the same bright sun
bursting over the horizon
every leaf and twig
and bird
(and bat)
transformed,
turned to gold.
There was evening
and there was morning
the first day.
Every day since,
dawn hastens.
Bird follows bat,
hope flutters again.

Photo by Harishan Kobalasingam on Unsplash

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