Painted Bunting

Painted Bunting

Paint flashes through the tree limbs,
We all cheer with praise and wonder.
Only one second and she is gone,
But the color remains embedded in my eye.

She lays at my feet,
Just outside the office building door.
She does not move,
Her colored feathers do not move.
I leave tobacco for her
and hear her wish to be cared for
and an overwhelming love surfaces.
I am gifted with this privilege to honor her.

So despite the odd stares of coworkers,
I gently take the tiny Painted Bunting into my hand.

The air is heavy and hot
as I walk solemnly into the trees.
Cardinal and her partner speak
and show me the right place.
I burn sage and leave cedar and tobacco
for her in the hole that I have dug.
A white stone is placed as her guard
upon this tiny grave.
I say a prayer releasing her
to the Upper World where birds belong.

A drum is in my hand and I beat it
until I am in another place.
Bunting flies over and around me ,
Her paint flashes once more for me
and I hear my Dad singing:
"It only takes a spark, to get a fire going..."
Then Bunting sings, too,
She is singing a teaching story
of how the largest image of love and healing
must always begin with the smallest spot of color.

Thank you, Painted Bunting, please continue
to flash your colors for all to see,
reminding us that we each have colors, too,
and that they are seen.

--Owl