Gift or delusion, I don't have it. I see
the burnt petals of the dogwood tree,
sacred; breathe the spicy rot of last
year's oak leaves after rain, sacred; taste
the dirty wild onion, heavenly. Not
one, but many. Not up there but
down with us, the broken sidewalks, the bugs.
The gods don't give dictation. Ring-necked doves
devise their own flight plans. The lightning hurls
itself. Nobody tells the wind to cry.
That doesn't mean we shouldn't listen
and watch. Reception's a religion when
everything whispers. Your hand to mine.
Starlings to branch. Signal and noise, ensnarled.