Vital Statistics

At the intersection of two country roads
     a yellow light flashes slowly.
I pull over—
     unnecessarily—
     hours pass here, this late at night,
     with no car from any direction.
The light flashes, once every two seconds,
     and it clicks as it flashes.
The corn rustles in the four fields.
Insects chirp.
The moon climbs a little higher in the sky.

Once every two seconds—
     somewhere in the world—
     a child dies of hunger.
No fields of corn are there,
     no intersections of highways,
     not even a flashing of light to announce the death.
Sometimes there is a weeping and a loud lamentation.
Sometimes, every two seconds,
     no one marks the death at all.

Except you, O Lord.
I believe:
     no light passes unnamed, unmourned.
Even when our intersection seems empty all night,
     still you are there.

May I sit just this one hour with you?
For this hour, as the corn rustles and the insects chirp,
     I will pray with you for each light as it flashes and is gone.
Every two seconds.
Every two seconds.