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.