It’s a simple ritual.

Breakfast time feeding on a cold winter’s morning.

Tidying, pouring on the altar of the table,

The hungry redbreast who’s there before you’re ready,

The calls, and chirrups, as word gets around,

Birdsong bursting in the cold of the morning,

The echoed call of gratitude in your own sweet heart.

The search for the word for the feeling of the moment:

Holy, your heart says,

Holy.

The ritual of the morning,

The hymn to creation,

Communion with nature,

Breaking bread with the birds.