The Chorus at Vespers

A poem for April (National Poetry Month)

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Coming home
one cruel April afternoon,

the red sun hit
a robin’s red chest
through the red buds of an awakening tree’s
red crest
during the peak
of the golden hour.

Though frigid as any day in February
thanks to the bitter wind,
my eyes were blessed
with every bit of May’s glow.

The chorus was so loud that it seemed less like song
and more like chatter.

Who do they sing to?
These multiple denominations
of robins
and grackles,
red-winged black birds,
and swallows?

Each congregation louder than their neighbors.

Do they sing to the Lord,
or to the setting sun,
or to me
or to each other?

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