The mute blue skies are a canopy
For the infinite fields and the whispering
Squirrels and rabbits become
The dumb court jesters of the morning.
A brown hawk steadies his wings
And soars, but goes nowhere.
Surrounded by a congregation of trees
I sip my coffee, and my connection to the land is absolute.
Jesus is in the red clay of the earth, and in the rustling
Of the leaves I hear the silent arias of God.
The hawk spins, arcs, and falls.
A lone rabbit listens, one ear cocked
Toward the absence of sound.
For a moment, all movement stops,
But the canyon speaks to no one.