Praise to you, O rooster most robust, who wakes the day for us with strong volume and tireless chords. Your early riser tune welcomes the sun back to our doorstep after a night of wooing the other side of the world. Though sometimes we would silence your call to wake, you stay on task because you would not have us miss the new day. Sad for us, indeed, if you overslept one day and so the sun stands outside the doorway, saddened that no one is there to welcome him back.
Praise to you, O vulture that swoops low from the sky to make a feast of carnage, sitting at the table of entrails and spoiled meat. For to you is assigned the unpleasant duty of cleaning up the messes we make. You do so with no complaint, except when we do not allow you to complete your assignment, but burst on the scene without warning, almost making you dinner for a distant cousin.
Praise to you, O killdeer so delightful to watch, as you stand on stick legs and sing a shrill cry that takes our sights off your nest nestled nearby with children so small still asleep within. You feign a twisted foot to fool foe into following you, a clever deceit with risk to self that spares your little ones, safe now from sabotage.
Praise to you, O owl on borrowed nest atop the beat-up barn, night-watcher with intense eyes and so stern a face, seeing what we cannot see, vigilant like a soldier on night watch, hooting into the darkness with clear signal to other night stalkers that you are near. If such come in peace, then no fear; but if such come to combat, then beware.
Praise to you, O pigeon that roosts on steeple high in the sky or under bridges low, a tenant with few demands, and happy to eat what friendly hand throws your way. Your soft coo-oo-ing a background song to a busy world more interested in moving on than in sitting still. You gave yourself as burnt offering in that ancient temple ornate as a stand-in for the babe in the arm of his mother, who still remembers your sacrifice on his behalf.
Praise to you, O sparrow so small and so simple, yet elevated by the Divine Son with a promise that you do not fall to the ground without a Father’s knowledge and surely with a tear of sadness from him as you rest upon the dirt. Sold for next to nothing in ancient times because of your plainness and ordinariness, still counted as special by the One who watches over you with infinite love.
Praise to you, O eagle that soars so high with lofty attitude towards us who stand below, with wings so broad surely they were stolen from angels’ backs, and with talons so long as to be a manicurist’s nightmare. Your high perch and your keen eyes provide you with the big picture, something we more visually impaired cannot see, but can only desire.
Praise to you, O dove beatific, whose body was employed the the divine spirit so that mortal man might see the unseen God and still live. Carrier of an olive branch to man and beast marooned on the ark, you embodied peace to them as they rebuilt a war-torn world. Today, still with us, a soft presence in a hard and hardened world that yearns for that long-lost peace.
Praise to you, O hummingbird, so petite and so agile, with wings that make you the ballerina of the wind. You suck out the sweetness of life, like babe on breast, satisfied to seek out the pleasant and bypass the unpleasant. Brightly clad, you stay but a second until your stomach has been sweetened, curtsying on your way away from us.
Praise to you, O parrot, dressed for the ball, with show-off brightness that leaves those more poorly dressed feeling depressed. Your plumage surely is a sign of divine humor that would have us use similar imagination. As bright in mind as in body, you tease and taut us with words foolish and foul, telling us to choose carefully the ones from our mouths that we want you or others to hear.
Praise to you, O robin, with orange breast and emerald egg, lovely to behold, as you search grass and ground for a buried berry or for a wiggly worm beneath your feet. You dance through sprinkled lawns in the summer heat like children giggling in the spray of a water hose. An early riser, you sing with joy that the day starts and the night ends.
Praise to you, O nightingale, soloist of the night, sadness in your song as you seek a soulmate to share your stay. Your woe wrings the night into weeping as you sing of love that strayed and of the love on whom you have set your heart. Careful those who hear your song lest they be reminded of similar loves lost and longed for in the deep of night’s slumber.
Praise to you, O woodpecker, red-haired and aquiline-nosed, always at work on wood, chop, chop, chop. a noisy worker for sure, but refusing to clock out until the deed is done. Energetic, always willing to use your head, you stay on limb of tree, annoyed by lazy passersby and lesser beings.
Praise to you, O cardinal bright, strutting your stuff with obvious star power, scarlet letter without shame. Blessed with natural good looks, you are courted and cursed, plied and pursued, none of which seems to affect your indifference or disdain towards us who have less to show. A spoiled child, a bad suitor, for sure, but we still return again and again to gaze upon your loveliness.
Praise to you, O swan, so eloquent with extended neck and perfect posture as you swim across lakes and ponds. No ugly duckling ever found among you, with sleek form and pure white cover. Your first love is your last love, a lifetime spent floating side by side on the sea, telling us of a love rarely seen on land.
Praise to you, O swallow, the original twit maker, whose short feet make sitting a must, content in condos across every continent, finding cause to sing, whatever the country you stay. Heralds of good news to sailors on the sea, you promise them land ashore almost in sight. Ever-seeing eyes, you shout of dangers to fellows and friends, a town crier atop the tree.
Praise to you, O blue jay, gifted with a three-piece tailored suit the color of sky and sea, suited as a gentleman, yes, but beneath the finery a street fighter. A good one to have our back in a bar brawl, but not one with whom to share a six-pack afterwards. A wicked vocabulary, like a cussing sailor. A good reminder to starry-eyed females fascinated by your rugged good looks, this handsome dude is not the one to bring home to meet the parents.
Praise to you, O black-haired crow, fooling us by your plain appearance, but beneath with a rocket scientist brain. Once fooled by mean-spirited humans, you never are twice-fooled by our likes. You pass along the word by shrill shouts to other black companions that we are the ones with black hearts. Not a picky eater, you take what is placed before you. Would we be so grateful for whatever appears at our table.
Praise to you, O Lord of the heavens, mother hen to us your chicks, the One in the high heavens who carries us on eagle’s wings and who gathers us together as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings. “Hope,” the poet said, “is the thing with feathers.” In you, we place all our hope. Guide our weak wings safely through the whirlwinds of this world to your heavenly nesting place.
— Jeremy Myers
Sunday Brunch 