Sometimes it’s the shadow
of zestful wings
against our drawn brown curtains,
other times the short, high,
insistent call
that catches our attention,
letting us know they are here,
the familiar pair
of tiny olive-backed sunbirds,
to build their hanging nest
just outside
our third-story bedroom window.
They weave their bowl-shaped home
from all things threadbare:
fibers, feathers, twigs,
and bits of silver tinsel
glinting sunlight—
whatever they can find.
We celebrate their work
with wordless gazes:
songs amidst our storm.
They cannot comprehend
the things we grieve
on this side of the glass,
the problems far too heavy
for even us,
strong as we are, to carry.
And yet their coming and going,
their bright notes,
their dwelling built from all
that You, Creator, have given
to sustain them
in this world of cars and concrete,
sustains us, gives to us
the simple joy
of seeing how you care
for them and for their young—
and care for us,
who know you only dimly
through the glass.