Father, bless. They tear across the winter sky. No, tear isn’t right, they hang there, a billowing wave that never reaches shore. Black bodies bound together, undulating like the Atlantic, the Pacific. They turn. They stop, freeze and then turn again. Black wings flap against the watery blue sky. No clouds today. Fresh snow on the field. My feet are cold as I stand watching. I was taking out the trash.
Kyrie. The sound caught me first. Flapping came from far off and the squawk was next, right above my head but high up, making a sort of thunder cloud, an avian swarm, a sky-full. Where are they going? Why do they stop and start like this? I thought it was a kind of game. Catch, red rover, hide and seek, tug of war.
Have mercy on me. I remember as a child, I would lay in bed afraid at night and tell God how I loved Him. “I love you, Lord” I would say and then beg for protection from the storm, the night, the noises, the shadows, the thunder cloud, the stories in my head. I would argue with myself—does the Creator of the world have this prerequisite for care? Would it be enough to protect me from the dark? It was a kind of game. Catch, red rover, hide and seek, tug of war.
They hang there and I am not breathing, not praying, this quiet murmur on my lips, afraid to look away.
Angela Doll Carlson’s work has appeared most recently in publications such as Relief Journal, Typehouse Literary, Bird’s Thumb Magazine, Ink & Letters, Ruminate Magazine, and Elephant Journal. Her most recent book is Garden in the East: The spiritual life of the body (Ancient Faith Publishing).