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, more near.

Clouds grow darker through the day;
a fresh’ning wind touches his face.
He swallows down his fear.

Evening dies into the west.
His heart knows and his face 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