TWO by LYNDA ALLEN
December Morn I watch the blue jays chase each other around the branches of the cherry. Occasionally, they pause in their pursuit to search a limb for breakfast. Their sharp cries perfectly describe the crisp coldness of the December morn. In the distance the hawk calls, looking for its mate, their voices always clearer this time of year. If the hawk drifts nearer the jays will let me know. Their chatter of breakfast found, and playful games of tag, will turn to an alarm reverberating through the treetops, “Beware! Beware!” Each day a birth. New life coming forth from the dark comfort of night’s womb, a tentative breath, a small cry, as the new day emerges. All the possibilities of an unlimited future that a parent could hope for, seen in the waxing smile of the setting moon. And the jays cry, Be aware! Be aware!
Dusk If she could pray, she would, but the twilight robs her of words. The mystery is so near it is all she can do to just breathe, as it takes form in the very air in her lungs that animates her being, in the perfect, intricate design of the willow leaf twirling in the breeze, in the angle of the moon as it rises, slightly more to the south than it was last month. So tangible is the mystery in the fading light of day, that it takes up momentary residence beside her, its hand resting gently upon hers, a friendship ancient and newborn moving between them. To be silent at dusk in the company of mystery, her living prayer.
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