Jesus Feeds the Birds

And it’s not always pretty. 
Those lilies clothed in Solomon’s splendor 
splotch with the leftover tufts

of field mice. For every hummingbird 
darting at an orchid, every goldfinch 
nibbling a quivering primrose stalk,

is an osprey disemboweling a flounder 
or a golden eagle snapping 
a badger’s neck midair. They do not

sow or heap seed heads in barns. 
They swoop and pluck 
in the moment, just as their meals

suddenly find themselves 
sliding down a gullet. Of course I can’t 
forget them, the ragged spirits of prey,

the grains and spores that never 
had a chance to germinate. The dead 
scamper and bloom in the shadow

of my wings, spreading and trailing 
in a train of many colors, and oh, 
the conversations we have.