The Great Tree

Somewhere in northern Louisiana, there is a tree.

It has no leaves. A constant cheeping, screeching, and twittering comes from it.

Close by, there is a bush. It is covered with leaves on all but one side--the side I am on. From it always comes a song.

And always there are cardinals, mockingbirds, jays, wrens, chickadees, and sparrows employing both the perch and the hiding place. Day after day, hour after hour, they call out to each other:

Holy, holy, holy is the Lord Almighty; the whole earth is full of his glory.

A Pileated Woodpecker swoops repeatedly overhead, and somewhere to the north, where he is heading, an ivory-bill swoops as well. He looks down on perching hawks, on plantive Killdeer, on the land-bound wingless.

And fearless, the residents of the tree call out to each other.

And wingless, I watch.