The black birds are falling

like ashes,

like leaves

in fragmented sky;

together in a sum

of intention,

but others

singly,

with the wind

which has its

own path.

I am always quiet

when the gulls

come down

in flocks for the fishing

boats pulling in their nets,

and quiet

when the autumn

geese rise in trills

from the lake

in an early snowfall.

It will happen,

these moments so still,

that perhaps God does

know when each hair

on my child’s head

moves.

I think of the grass waving

under the lake;

if He has numbered every

bending blade

and all her winding

russet strands

surely He can cause

one wing  to lift slightly.

It is enough to turn a flock--

enough to pull beauty

towards multiplication.