On the Wing

Today is the day.
How grateful am I
For every cloud of gray
Every drop of rain or icy flake,
Every breath that flew away
In dirge, or praise, or revelry.

Intricately, my wings unfurled,
My story unfolded against the air
In ascension and dive, song and twirl:
Before my Maker, I migrated
Searching this world
For Providence

Finding it from cavern to summit
In my Maker’s hand-
Taking wing to the wind of trumpets
To soar through blue
Or else to plummet
And sleep though winter

One day, to finish my flight,
To be in the ground
Is no less than working the sky
All things complete, as they should be.
After all, You alone made me to fly;
There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow,
Even one such as I.

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