The Cuckoo at Easter
It was the night of Easter, and our church’s holy mass was held beneath the open sky. The congregation gathered outside the old church walls, where the cool air of night wrapped around us and the moonlight cast its quiet blessing over all. It was the middle of the service. Candles flickered like small stars, and the choir’s hymn rose gently into the darkness. Beside the place where we prayed stood a neem tree, tall and still under the silver glow of the Easter moon. And there, amid its branches, a cuckoo stirred. I saw it walk softly along a slender branch, its small form touched by the pale light. Then, in that quiet moment, it sang—a soft, single note that seemed to float between earth and heaven. For a brief, tender instant, I felt as though the cuckoo had joined our worship. As though it, too, had been drawn into the grace of the night, awake and blessed by God, a silent participant in our prayer. Its song felt like a nat...