As the Indigo Bunting Flies
by Gail Davidson
AS THE INDIGO BUNTING FLIES
Follow the trail blazes, friend,
painted on the trees—
they’re faded orange
like my Tevas,
and they etch the ancient path like
eternal tongues of fire.
Dangling from one chestnut oak
is a pale blue bandanna,
still wrinkled
by the hand that clutched it,
isolated
like this rocky Blue Ridge terrain.
Use its paisley print to wipe
your sweaty forehead,
your furrowed brow.
Easy now—
the rough day you dreaded
is painfully
near,
as you climb here
without your shoes…
and the minutes pass achingly slow.
See, we both heard the misty whispers:
Remove your shoes; this is holy ground.
So, we dropped our knees
and noses
down to chanterelle height,
nestled in for a breather aside the bluets and phlox.
I tucked my sandals near the placard,
dictating choice in soul direction…
Moses’s first forays up Mt. Sinai
were novice-deep, calling-high experiences
filled with burning curiosity, wild grace,
stone tablets of law, seeking the Father’s face…
Yet, that’s
not
why I am here.
Do I, too, seek out fiery bushes? Nay,
but those dusty footprints of Moses’s latter hikes
to beseech God and pray
for my beloveds below, and for newfound kin.
I beg for toes not to stumble, plead forgiveness for sin,
including my own.
I trek through the mud, craggy rocks, this miraculous mess—
where tears and trust intertwine in
intercessory prayer—
such a burden hangs hot
and uneven on my shoulders.
For every ascent, I climb higher, climb higher.
Will there be another sacrifice demanded in store?
Perhaps a sandal, a lament, a covenant offering—
maybe
a will so changed
I’ll offer life in exchange
for my loved ones,
and dear prodigals,
and the young generations
who’ve yet to lay eyes on the blue of the view.
With teary eyes
I realize
what little I offer this
holy mountain magnitude.
A dry breeze through dead pines mocks my hope, evergreen.
My toes, they sloosh
over cold stepping stones,
while the creek rushes around me, threatens to pound silty pebbles beneath me.
Yet, I promise, friend,
I’ll reach back for your hand.
Such relief will it be to
cross the streams, have you
sit next to me in the warm sand—
older mama that I am.
I'm used to being by myself these days;
this is my familiar terrain…
With hands clasped on the Israelites’ behalf,
after many days, Moses did intercede,
softly imploring the Lord to
join them
and
if he would lead.
The pillar cloud
sifted, floated, drifted
down the mountain
and stayed,
and laid upon the tent of meeting—
love and presence
made visible
for the children of Israel:
a cumulus crop of Heaven-top,
settled shade for day protection,
nestled fireflame for night…
How mighty is the Word,
which gifts a light unto our path,
and holy is a yearning when it burns
on glory ground!
Friend,
each high, each low,
is where we painstakingly grow.
You think you’ve nothing left to give?
Not so.
Your mountain intercession, this hike-hard confession,
cries out to the Spirit as the indigo bunting flies,
flits upon branches under domes of the waters, the wind, and the wonders,
delighting the Father, the One Who Sees all,
entreating the Son to light lamps lacking oil.
Together,
we’ll water love into soil,
as Zion beams with navigation.
Each high, each low,
is how the kingdom will grow.
You think you’ve nothing left to give—
not so.
In your daring free,
you accompany me
and every sojourner with the Trinity.
And in your choosing free,
you bless me,
my “younger” me,
and the day I prayed
and placed my bandanna in a tree.
GAIL DAVIDSON
Gail Davidson lives on a country road with her family in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. Last autumn, Gail’s poem described a mountaintop experience, delighting in the sights with the presence of the Lord. This year, she is back again in the Blue Ridge, only this time, on her knees in intercessory prayer. She is honored to be published in the online literary journals The Way Back to Ourselves, Calla Press, and Vessels of Light. Come follow her on Instagram @gailmdavidson.