STORM

Winter days like this one,
cold and dark and blizzard blasted,
turn those of us inside into mute survivors.
Conversation seems somehow silly,
pointless, almost a sacrilege.
The walls that bear the brunt
of wind's assault take on biblical stature:
our refuge and our strength.

Hours pass into deeper darkness.
Sleep is fitful, accompanied by
wind howls, mysterious thumps
   -- a tree limb torn off?
   -- a fence rail hurled against the porch?

When half-hearted morning
comes at last, the gale dies;,
the snow abates and stops.
The bird feeder has disappeared
from the maple branch. Beneath
its accustomed place I see
something feathered, fallen,
a chipping sparrow's corpse.

God will have a busy day today
with tallying of sparrows.