In the late evening, a mourning dove cries
by the liquid well of hills, near the dipping
throat of a wood thrush close to a nightjar,
the toad chorus in a marsh, a blackbird’s
flick of his red shoulder before a storm.
The tallest reeds hum their dry rhythm
under the ringing pulse of northern lights
witnessed as far south as this glacier lake
with ancient, watery songs of provision
pouring out psalmody, psalm, melody.
The aurora borealis blesses the vespers
of river mist, praying a new greenery
in this wingless hour of a dove’s coo
in the holy, kindred welkin of God
offering quiet hymns at evensong.