Hallelujah for this. The loud sudden blast of horn from a SUV impatiently swerving around a car in the left hand turn lane. An assault on the senses. An uptick in the heart rate, a swell of anger, maybe a quick curse on the lips and then an inner reminder to be thankful for the sense of sound, sight, hope, breath.

Breathe. Express gratitude that the one who makes ears and makes impatient humans who can’t wait to get from this patch of asphalt to that patch of asphalt, from this red light to that one. Maybe there’s a bass thumping. The guy who makes assholes and who made you an asshole also made forgiveness and forgiving and breathing.

I notice the neighbor has a bird feeder. How did i not know this? I have some field glasses and look at the feeder. 2 brown sparrows, one greyish red cardinal. A jay suddenly swoops in and drives the others away. The jay is the SUV of birds, coming in with a blast, scaterring seed and feeders and driving away.

Do birds know forgiveness? Naw, I think. Little dinosaurs they just know pecking at seeds and jerky head movements and shitting in a little squirt and oh yeah flying and chirping their programmed call. Predestined. Those God foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the image of…Jay. Or Sparrow.

But what about mockingbirds. They break the mold and can sound like whatever the hell they want to. Jays, sparrows, cell phone, truck-backing-up.

Once a mockingbird sat on a post outside and chirbled on endlessly in the middle of the night. It reverberated through the street. I got my phone, went outside, and recorded him, transfixed. I have it on a file somewhere on the cloud. This birdsong in a cloud.

Mockingbirds have free will
sing what they want
for good or for ill.

And what what do I have?

Lord muster in me joy, a great swell of notes, let em cascade shining out sounding like abandon, joy, sun, gratitude, marigolds. Let what I want be what you want. Infuse and draw it out of me.

The sun comes and goes away. When it’s here it paints the the treetops and the top of the garage liquid gold. I notice a commotion by the birdhouse. I grab my glasses and train them on the place.

It takes a sec to find the right spot. On the way I see: Pots holding geraniums, marigold, chimney bricks, sandy shingles. A cat — the cat — cleaning himself on the garage roof. Angles, shadows, wires carrying electricity to keep the lights on, roof peaks stretching out to a white sky, and

fat sparrows
plump in the sun.
They will fly away
when the big Jay comes.