By Jonathan Hunter-Kilmer
gentle hand beneath my feet
a frightened bird whose wings
flap inconsistent
so unsure
of wind and thermal things
of where receptive branch
cool water
berries bright will be
and predators
with teeth
or claws
or hunting beak
will see
and whether skittering
or quick hop
will take me away
my own beak full
of seed or bug
when I become the prey
a scavenger I'll be at times
and scavenged flesh become
there's no way out
I'm trapped in this
no will
all instinct
dumb
or so many believe
and would have me
enslaved the same
but my soul in Your hands
can soar
chains melted by Your flame
enthralled no longer
nesting
and protected by Your flesh
I swim to wisdom
in Your blood
with energy refreshed
those hands surround me
though still
and when rising
and then swoop
there is no danger
though my body
may be eagle's soup
I rise without a feather
and my hollow bones
leave air
I'll leave that, too,
as bride to You
I quiver, Lover fair
