Celestial Favor

Last night I asked God for an answer,

a sign of approval, that my step was sure,

my intent pure. Anything would do, I said.

This morning there is a chicken at the winter feeder

on the railing of the deck : a plump white chicken

of dazed demeanor, holding her own

amidst the jays and mourning doves

squabbling and feeding in the twelve-below freeze.

She roosts atop the feeder

like a feathered weathervane,

cocks her head at me as I stare in disbelief.

"You called?" she asks.

I know God sends the portents we crave

in our neediness, each with meaning for the one disposed

-- a flurry of doves, the whisper of an angel,

bedside visits from the Little Flower or Saint Anthony

glowing in the dark, God himself to a holy few!

To me God sends a chicken, a befuddled chicken

who, like me, suffers a deficiency of direction.

I deduce I am dealing with a Prankster.

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