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.