A sparrow flew, as if a hawk were in pursuit,
into the sanctuary of our seminary chapel;
I was quenching candles, relishing the afterscent;

it perched a while on a small brass crucifix
over the tabernacle, and I remembered: better are you
than many sparrows, and laughed, not being sure . . . I stood,

hesitant companion, the congregation with its shuffle-noise
had gone out into the good air; for a while –
acolyte and bird – we watched each other, intrigued

and waiting; the sparrow flew towards the rose window
where it thudded hard against deceptive blue; it fell,
slowly, to the marble floor and I gathered it up, scared,

knowing, for a moment, what it may be to be God,
a small heart hammering against my caring hands; outside
sweet scents from the heathers came and clouds drifted

across blue late-evening skies; when I opened my hands
the sparrow stayed still a little while, perhaps
mistrusting of the grace it had just received.