Scripture that morning was about signs
and wonders and I wanted to get up
and let them know about the two
bald eagles, shoulder to shoulder in
the bare cottonwood in the north
river bottoms along the Marais des Cygnes.
But there was no call for testimony, so
I sat on the organ bench and remembered
how the sun made white snow of their
mantles and their fierce beaks tipped
toward each other, brown feather socks
almost hiding their talons. There was a
buck, too, that morning. I had to stop
and honk and have a conversation before
he’d headed back into the woods off the
highway. Make no mistake about it, no
accidents of fate, these. Just gifts, like grace.