A Morning Offering 

Would you think me strange 
if I told you 
that most mornings, 
before I even turn into the parking lot, 
my heart is already overflowing? 

That I’ve already gathered 
a hundred small moments 
that feel like offerings, 
not spoken, 
but somehow heard. 

The crow, running 
through the morning grass 
on his way to drink 
from the shallow dish beside the fence. 
As though the earth itself 
had whispered his name. 

The clouds above the mesa,
not just passing,
but writing something in the sky
that I’m sure I’m meant to remember.

The birdsong,
not just sound,
but a thread that ties me
to every heart inside the homes I pass.
So many windows.
So many stories of love
held quietly in the corners.

The birds kissing on the light pole.
The deer standing with their unshaken grace,
as if to say,
yes,
this too is holy.

A song in my ears.
Another in my chest.
And still another
I cannot name.

Would you think me unguarded,
too soft for this world,
to say that these moments
are everything?
That they are what carry me
through the doors of duty,
through the weight of what comes next?

Maybe you won’t see it on my face,
as I move through the motions,
but I promise you,
the morning is still with me.

And quietly,
I am still listening.