Everything had been bleak, arid and painful;
surely God, to whom he had been loyal,
would do something, anything.
Waiting at last came to an end; next to him, a bird sang,
his favorite one, the eastern spinebill, whose wings brushed
together when it flew, and a wind stirred around his face.
There was joy in the world,
there would be more;
it is not constant,
but like flowers, it is frequent,
delightful and surprising, abundant.

Reg Naulty.