See Me

This is what you teach me, Lord,

in the early morning hours,

when it’s still cold enough

to see my breath,

when the sky is so blue,

and so clear that it seems

to be all sharp edges

and impossible to look at 

—this is what You teach me

in the Florida Scrub Jay

that sails through the air

up and down like a hand

surfing the wind outside

an open car window. 

You teach me to be still,

to listen, 

to breathe,

to wait,

to blink

and watch as the scrub jay

sails away and away 

and then back again to the branch

above me and sits

and turns his cheek just so

and says, 

“Look here I am in shadow.

and now here I am in sun.

Here I am caressed by warmth

and here I am chilled with shade.

See me playing tag with my sister.

See me chasing away those cackling grackles.

See me.

See me.” 

“Yes, I see,” I say. 

“Good,” he answers

and leaves me to play.