Thank heaven, at least,

for the dreaming meadowlark

who wasn’t told not to eat

anything after midnight,

who didn’t go sleepless till dawn

fearing his hazel wings

being anointed with gel

for an ultrasound, nor the route

of a scope snaked down

the pure shibboleth in his throat,

who’s not burdened for those

already with bad diagnoses,

but who rests among laurels

of proverbs and psalms,

expectant of being bathed again

in another rose-colored show

of providence when it comes,

how it comes, if it comes.