I step into their sanctuary an outsider
curious, but they are quiet, and answers,
when they come, are terse. They speak
in ecclesiastical terms foreign
to those not ensnared by their zeal,
dazzling and disorienting at once.

Oh, to be a part of such joy, to soar
like the regal birds they admire:
counting cataloguing, exclaiming,
and it occurs to me then that theirs
is just another doctrine of devotion,
their passion ubiquitous but unique:

they watch birds; my father collected
stamps; bakers swap recipes
and risen bread. All have their language,
their saints and sinners, hallelujahs and amens,
but few are ecumenical enough to see that
while the faces of their gods differ,
their call to worship is the same.
                        

Sometimes, I wonder if they angered God,
if once they had been his most regal birds,
guardians of a high and holy place
until some sin, a mighty fall from grace,
for which he stripped their scarlet feather crowns
and cast them out to scavenge on the ground,
condemning them to feed upon the dead
with rheumy eyes and hideous red heads.
But when I watch them sail or dive and swoop,
or see the reverent air with which they roost,
I think upon their haj, their pilgrimage,
from Pharisees to lowly penitents:
modest monks in robes of chestnut brown,
outstretched wings in worship of the dawn.