She visited on Deacon Dog’s departing day.
I imagined his sweet old spirit brushed by her great wings
in mid-air.
Her message was bitter
and sweet.
The merciful and wild grace of God–
Perched quiet and watchful
on a dead tree branch.
Fierce beauty. Untamed.
She was there
and then gone.
So was Deacon Dog, it seems.
His fourteen years on this good ground
fleeting
as all of life is.
Her presence was a
reminder, though, of gifts
offered into life’s rawest moments–
the high lonesome sound of her voice
touching grief with mystery.
Salt: Seasoned Theology 