At the back door, at last light, with the dogs,

I hear birds sound, singing with as much delight

As much thankfulness, as their morning song

Had prayed, displayed; they are as ever

Unafraid. Like Job who, losing everything he thought was his, only said,

“the Lord has given; the Lord has taken away.

We accept good things from his hand.

Should we not accept evil?”

I am no bird.

I am no Job.

I do not hear the music today; I do not sing.

I have not found a way through the fear

To the acceptance …

But maybe, just perhaps, that’s

Why he says so often, again and again

To whomever would listen and to those who could not

“Do not fear. Be not afraid.”

Perhaps it is not a command.

Perhaps these are syllables of comfort

From a divine mother feeding her timid young

In a nest She has built

A nest that did not fall, did not fail

Even when the great wind came

That robbed Job of his children.

So, the birds sing, unseen, in the dying light

They know, beyond any fear

That it will be born again.