It is July, and I am hesitant
to head outside in the sunshine,
as if the robins might jump me.
Cliques of them, looking all
tough in the yard, act like they
own the place, like the shade
shows up just for them. Church
taught me about their good side:
While birdsong was rudimentary
in its purpose at the beginning,
what they share isn’t only song
as much as psalms if we listen.
Generations spread the message
of what not yet a saint Francis
preached to the sweet little sisters
centuries ago, blessing those birds
with the knowledge of God’s glory.
I listen to them: Holy, holy, holy,
they chirp, whistle, peep, and chirr.
I open my door, and the little devils
sound spirited with their testimony
winging through this wormy world.