I suspect that there is in all things the presence of the divine
But that at various times for various reasons it can be easier or more difficult to see
It is clear in the quiet power of the young buck’s soft steps across the open field
In the call of the crows circling overhead, silhouetted by the dying light of evening
In the song of the running river that wades through the gates of cottonwood
And in the deep and mysterious beauty of the forest itself
In the rich amber of the turning maples of autumn,
And the stoic repose of the old evergreens that will weather the winter
Here, ever clearly, is the divinity of all things.
And so I suspect that this divine presence dwells in man as well
And that here too it can be easier and more difficult to see
In fact I feel that it is often most difficult to find that presence in man
Though I have come to believe that this is more to do with the prejudices of thought
And has little to do with the reality of things
For what has poured forth the the shining cities of the world,
But a curious manifestation of the same great life that births the emerald forest?
The glittering glass towers and the ancient earth flow from the same mysterious source
The ceaseless creation and destruction, the endless striving of God.