They gather here for their daily bread,
and a drink,
Unaware that behind this window is another.

There, a portal opens to an El Salvadorian summer,
a Central African power outage,
a thick Indonesian night.
Paris.

Does he not care more for you than the birds of the yard?

There is such beauty in the large, grand things;
the great arc of justice or rainbow.

But there is beauty too in the miniscule;
the bird on wing,
the hosta’s veiny leaf.
The heart at rest.

Not even a cardinal can fall but that he takes notice and sees.

The world is loud and gaudy, demanding we be afraid,
and drown.
Thanatos lives here.
But there is more.

The rain falls on the righteous and the unrighteous.

I will not fear, for through both windows I see the Father at work,
tending,
mending.

I see the living among the dead.

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