There were so many sparrows in my tree lawn maple,
that a ten year old boy who lives down the street
stopped to stare into it from my driveway,
then he moved by the trunk
to look up through the branches.
It was odd, so far out of ordinary,
that a black kid with a mohawk
had to stop, that I had to stop,
that my neighbor silenced her story to listen.
How often do three busy people
perch to attention for the same thing?
It was a royal racket, dozens of them,
maybe even a hundred, gathered before dusk.
Like Muslims for the another lean to Mecca,
they gathered to a common calling bell
and began the Maghrib, a sunset prayer.
Yesterday, the song at church that grabbed my attention
was Khudaya Rahem Kar, from Pakistan.
The chant asks for God's mercy over and over again.
The first syllable, "Khu" swells like a flock of people
gathering, then surging, to a needed God.
The R in Rahem rolls, then the M becomes a hummm.
I have been singing it all day,
not really sure what mercy is or what kind of mercy I may need.
Leniency, clemency, compassion, grace?
Charity, forgiveness, forbearance, softheartedness?
For what I have done, what I will do?
The many ways I fall short,
swooping into my selfish self?
Sympathy, indulgence, tolerance, generosity?
Maybe that is what the birds were singing in my tree.
Every word they have for day, every word they have for light,
every word they have for flying, for being free,
every sound they have for flight.
Who knows what I say everyday.
All I know is that I said so many words this afternoon
that my voice grew gravelly, dusty, then was gone.
Perhaps it is best to stick to one word, one sound,
to save up my speaking for the end of the day,
and chirp it out over and over again,
under the darkening cover of green,
as the sun accepts its release.
Perhaps mercy, God. Perhaps, goodness, God.
Perhaps, thank you, God. For all that I have,
and all that I need, and all that is held
away from me, so that I must
make a pilgrimage to mecca on my own two wings.
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