By Andrew R. Duckworth
I always hate to hear the morning birds chirping to no end when the sky is dark with cloud cover and the temperature changes sharply. “What a pretty song!” some might declare. “What a pretty song!” says the oblivious one. When all of the birds fly away, it becomes apparent that there was no song in their chirping. There was nothing quite so joyful as song. There was no such happy melody. Only warning cries
As I pulled into the parking lot, I spoke on the phone, “Storms are coming. A few this morning, but the more severe this afternoon.” I pulled into my normal parking spot. It isn’t mine, but it might as well be. The same place each time. The morning going to the same start as every morning, as if I want the morning to be normal, routine. But nature has, as it often does, other plans.
Sprinkles, sprinkles on the glass,
Waiting as the minutes pass.
It trickles down in beads and steams.
The springtime storm is here, alas.
Inside, I hear the claps. I hear the wind whip and howl. I hear the rain tap the windows. I hear the pea-sized hail ping and ding. I see the flashes through the window. I see the trees wave, but not to say hello. I see barely anything as the rain clouds the view.
Sirens wail like air raids.
In need of one more barricade.
The wind wraps round and cloud comes down.
No comfort and no serenade.
Calm, like the world stops moving for a moment, as if danger never was. Birds. I hear them, as if they never left. Somehow, that chirping seems to carry a song, perhaps a song of thanksgiving, a song of thanks to the One who sees and knows all for keeping them out of harms way. And, out that window, the sun’s first rays pierce the clouds and illuminates the area as if some holy place, as if paradise.