Cardinal

I sit in a park 

Mid January afternoon 

Barren branches 

Stale air

A flash of red

I turn my head 

There on a lonely branch sits a crimson bird

What are you doing here Mr.Cardinal?

A lovely song erupts from its arsenal 

So audible 

So crisp 

Such a beautiful thing that exists

It leaps, gliding past the snowdrifts

To some far away church 

To sing with the bishops 

And blue jays

For the peoples praise