Woodstorks

Woodstorks

Black heads
bobbing and swaying
now here and now
under the water.

Feathers in a disarraay
blown apart by the
mysterious storms that
seem to buffet them

as they walk. Not the bird
I would choose to be
the symbol of what I hold
dear, and yet

for all their limbs-askew
awkwardness, for their
vulture-headed hideousness
I hold these visitors

dear, nearly holy
a gift that shows me

bright and beautiful
bold and brittle
awkward and alien
Loving God made us all.

© 2002 Steven Riddle