Sitting here, looking out at the sheer grey, cream cliffs of the canyon, I suddenly understand. Watching the vultures circle, black, wheeling and crying... the hummingbirds flitting and veering off in tandem, two so close, shadowing one another down towards the Frio River, I feel Your hand.
Your hand, upon my back. Tracing the hollow from tender neck to firmer base of spine. Your hand beneath my chin. Down my arms. Across my heart. With this roomful of voices, I sing the Psalm and Your own voice echoes, I put my hand on you. Then I remember this from a poet's pen, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem.
Sitting here, looking out at the sheer grey, cream cliffs of the canyon, I become the bird in Your hand, a poem moving across the sky... lines without end, grace unfurled, released upon the clouds.