Sunrise
Freda Hirsch
Rick Alley
The closest we got to holding God was holding a day-old bird. Odd questions in the trees (if God has hands, they’re leaves). Yes, that was the closest we got, the bald, hot-pulsing bird.
And like in the old paintings, for a while our thoughts seemed underneath layers of blue, brushed.
We found a way to make a path by slowly tramping the briars.