The Thrashing

Early early mornings Such as this In the spring, When the sky Is Blue and still As a lake, The black night And all its noise Erased, There were strands Of blond straw Untangled Straightened And strewn Down The dozen back steps Of my brick building As if A woman’s long hair Had fallen out During the night And was Tossed Through an upstairs Window To the breezy Parking lot Below. The birds Were perched On the iron railings Not aflutter And not with song, But stunned And Pondering The toil Of their nest Thrashed Apart The night before In the wind storm. Why? Must He.