the weak creature in the storm

Count the strands

of one small feather

if you can

as she wings tethered

to the wind—

such power

in so gentle a thing!

Then consider

humble nests

in high gray rocks

or low black branches,

sun-beaten then rain-drenched,

unmarked by all but God.

They too sing for pleasure

or pain—to protect

or gain some ground—

their whistling pitch drowned out

by the busy sound

of human greed—

yet still they scatter seeds

and plant flowers

with flapping limbs and pointed beaks.

Consider my soul,

small in the canyon,

powerless beneath the lightning

but beautified because I’m loved.

the weak creature in the storm

by troy cady