The Left Hand of God
He learned so long ago
that hardship is not for the young.
But he can still close his eyes
and name all the trees
by the sound of their leaves.
Now, his beard gray-flecked and foxed
by wind, he shares his day-old sandwich
with gulls, their acrylic
yellow bills eating, screeching, in arias
of dissonance. They stand
on the bench like funerary guardians,
his own aviary flock yielding to the divine.