What a blue bird shrilled to me today, upon landing here:

Plastic cars
plastic bars
plastic tv towers
plastic head dashboard in my car
plastic computers-looters who mar the unseen
plastic now, so thin and seemingly durable. Plastic branded conversations,
even plastic nations; plastic scholastic thoughts; what happened to the inner Tone of Word, the subtle nuances of being alive, being heard;
and yet, somewhere like today, at a particular hour of morning (6:13-like the laws, her call!)
on a particular cedar wooden fence, beside what is actually me, I see…
a cobalt blue blue bird landing specifically, pensively, surveying, in song, the sea
from her own
private lighthouse made of stone sight and bone, with levity—and what all birds are made of…breath and song;
and in her light flight sight,
the verdancy of being, called
still and shrill
in her own type of tone, her identity secured, known, resonated against, and even echoed into..
or with, the tone of our plastic worlds.
She sees the old sea, bodies of water in Thee,
as it is, as we are—wet and readied. All nations, all of us. She tells me,
there’s time left to know still.
And this bird told me another story,
“the Kingdom is made of Glory willing to re-mold itself, alight even upon, or, into our
plastic storied lives.”