This morning

I turned to the beauty,

built a fire

while three ravens cackled at

two hawks.

It was not serious warfare…

more an exchange of

suspicious glances

across the borders of

status and majesty.

I had a conversation with the sky

about bringing rain and

wondered if a particle of smokey ash could

ride the wind to Portugal,

touching down

in the sunlit hair

of a brown eyed girl.

She was taught hard to pray to the mother of Jesus,

thinking in terms of

a heavenly kingdom, angels, saints,

cathedrals. But she loves the seashore where wonder

washes up into her fledgling spirit and

shells in the sand are her treasures. Someday

she may know.

Not many built a fire this morning though

I would be an ugly American to disregard

that many have turned

to the beauty in

their own way,

like that little girl in Portugal.

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