Kersten Christianson

A red-breasted sapsucker
plummets from the morning sky
crash lands
on the cold pavement.

Bill to the ground,
its wings flop,
lift and shroud; a fallen angel
on any good Friday.

Bundle it in your sweater,
threadbare, but warm;
cradle it against your chest,
its breath quiet and still.

You drive to work,
balance bird, bag and coffee
down the sterile hall,
convinced only science
can mend.

Later, you learn,
outstretched wings take flight,
red feathers eclipse sun,
he has risen once again.