They neither sow nor reap,
they have neither storehouse nor barn,
and yet God feeds them.
A congregation of crabs
dances gracefully en pointe,
moving their tiny chopsticks up and down
among the shreds and tatters.
They are feeding. They are satisfied.
Barnacles waving their wee fans
fetch sustenance out of the seawater.
Is this not a miracle?
The woodpecker typing away on a dead tree
finds food, food enough,
and the birds who swoop for bugs,
and the bugs who eat their tiny morsels.
We come up the aisle with outstretched hands:
a crumb of bread, a sip of wine.
We are given what we need.