Once upon a time,
so long ago that time itself was barely begun,
a thing with wings brooded over deep waters,
moving the surface aside to reveal
creation.

A long time later,
but so long ago that history was still in the future,
the waters had deepened again beneath the Ark
that floated the life of all flesh above the Flood:
Noah, the raven, the serpent, the lion, and the lamb.
The winged thing borrowed the feathers of a dove, 
moving the surface of the deep waters aside to uncover
the olive tree.

Not so long ago,
the waters of the river burst apart 
as the man surfaced, baptized and breathing hard, 
water dripping from his hair 
like oil from an olive press.
The winged thing parted the soft clouds of heaven, 
borrowed the body of a dove again
to cover him,

But someone caught the dove
in a snare, netting its tender claws and beak, 
folding its feathers into a basket, 
enclosing it within the heavy stones of Herod’s design
with the money changers and the priests,
The winged thing was loathe to leave it, 
having become fond, was gladdened 

when the man returned, his feet 
pounding the stones like a wine press,
his hands flinging coins and rope and wool
but tender with the cages of the doves;
he turned them loose, the bird
and the winged thing,
watched them as they soared above the firmament
until its brightness swallowed them alive.