The kingfisher wakes me
with its strident rattle,
thrilling me out of sleep.
It’s been months since
I’ve seen one, and now
on this snowy morning
one clatters and chatters
me into spring.
The heart leaps up,
surprised it doesn’t
have wings. I’m here,
it beats, its own tuneless call.
Like the kingfisher, it’s ready
to dive into the deep.
I’m here, it calls again
from inner branches.
It need not be beautiful,
the song that reminds us
who we are—it calls to us
in its own undecipherable way
until one day when we hear it,
we can’t help but hear
our own name.