Late December lays mist
      along the valley, the mountain
            peaks dark against a gray sky.
If this is not church, it will
      do for now—holy congregation
            of titmouse, finch, junco
taking communion at the feeders
      beyond my window, a heavenly
            choir not yet giving voice.

Stained glass of feather and fur—
      cardinal on the limb, a bluebird
            splashing rainbows, and beneath
the maple, a squirrel with his own
      sacrament of seed and yesterday’s
            bread crumbs. No fiery bush
from which God speaks, no miracle
      of water into wine, only the daily
            spinning of this blessed earth—
light into dark and once more
      into light—a ritual our hearts
            bow to, our spirits sing.