Yesterday was Sunday and I went to no church
but the sanctuary of a small stream, a small
lake to cast a line in water too cold to fish
but not worship by. The ground was soft,
at least an inch or two down. The winter
thaw had begun and the waters were clear
and the stream, because it was in a small
valley, kept the wind away. And the lake,
because it was in the open, almost had white-
tipped waves. The sun silvered the bottom
of the clouds and the ruffled nature of them
made me think of a ruffled bedspread after
two people get out of bed – that curious beauty
of chaos and dream. I drove slow on the backroads.
On one side, the steep hillside with pines and oaks
and beech trees and boulders and fallen trees
and moss. And on the other side, the downwaru
grade into the creek, its windings like a hypnotic
dance of a snake without any danger of dying only
getting lost. Between the water and the sky
and the land and the backroad I felt I was moving
back in time where scripture was scripture before
any word was spoken. And had some idea about time
and eternity and some confusion about where I was
and then remembered I was driving home.
-Byron Hoot
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