Easter Birds

The Easter birds at sunrise service
seemed out of place, somehow
singing vigorously behind
the Casio keyboard, and its housewife
belting hymns. The last sunrise
I attended, it was cold, so
the congregation, mostly old folks
huddled inside; at our token stand
outside the tulip & lily-soaked church
the birds were silent, leaving us
to feel out of place.
Twenty years later, walking the dog
I heard them again: in a copse of trees
almost aggressive in their sweet tones
recalling an innocence
I’d long forgotten: but new
every morning, it’s said.
I wonder if they tried
to sew the curtain back together
for Temple sabbath, the next morning;
and if birds sang the same that sunrise.
On the anniversary of death,
those left behind have vivid memories,
I’ve heard, and it makes me curious
if the Earth herself recalls this, too
with her winds, and mountains,
and her clueless, cheerful birds.

April 2021