All is quiet; not quite still.
A mourning dove repeats his trill,
“I am here, I am here.”

The sun is chary of the sky.
A sparrow ventures to reply,
“Right here, right here, right here.”

Though it’s morning, light is dim.
Shadows are approaching Him,
drawing near, drawing near.

Clouds grow darker through the day.
A freshening wind touches His face.
He swallows down His fear.

Evening dies into the West.
His heart knows, and His jaw is set.
The way ahead is clear.

At table with the ones He loves,
outside the walls He hears the dove
again call, “I am here.”

~ Rebekah Choat