Let there be a convocation of cardinals
In the backpacks and tents under our bed.
Let them fan the small campfire of our sleep.
Let Carolina wrens nest in the empty
guitar cases in our guest room closet.
Let them teach all hollow bodies to sing.
Let there be brown thrashers in our kitchen
stirring tales of plenty into stone soup.
Let there be grackles rising from the backs
of foxes in fields of clover. Let there be
yellow warblers in the subway tunnels
where dark and light chase each other from window
to rail to opening door. Let briefcases
turn inside out and become vesper sparrows.
Let there be finches gathering in the mouths
of presidents and the veins of generals.
Let them chirp in the ears of our enemies.
Let there be barred owls in my granddaughter’s
first breath and in my last. Let them hunt
as dusk consumes light and blackbirds usher
us into the realms of the dead. Let chickadees
drop seeds of next year’s crops into the furrows
of our famine. Let the birds, let the multitudes,
beat their wings to the national anthem
of each river and every star.
Let there be scarlet tanagers nesting
in my hair, hatching the eggs of my dreams.
Laura Newton
An earlier version of this poem was published in Redheaded Stepchild
Photo Credit: Male Summer Tanager, by Kathleen Carr
