Little Birds

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The little birds

skitter

‘cross the driveway

pecking seed broadcast by the random hand of

night wind.

They do not know I am sitting here

still

it serves me greater pleasure

just to watch and not

be known.

The primal domain speaks in silence

or in songs

without words

while

culture clamors.

We choose by leaning to one side

or the other.

The nonobvious ecclesia is

always up to

mending and tending

some part of creation. Having

shed old symbols and language

twice removed from the real,

the grandest esoteria will not slip the

turning under.

It will be forgotten. The world is

getting better.

We will have the earth and its people and God

will walk among us in the

cool of the day.

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