Seen with the eye of contemplation, creatures are

            vestiges, the very footprints of God.

— St. Bonaventure

A gray bird in a red bush,

an empty stream of stones and brittle leaves,

a chittering song sung, then followed

by a silence that lifts up the sky,

lifts the sky with an echoing

that fills the world

as if the world

were no bigger than this room

and this room, porous with mystery,

and now shot with light,

becomes the place

within which I might walk

forever out of time

along a dry stream bed

behind the chittering of a bird,

this bird who,

no bigger than the palm of my hand,

seems to know the way

better than I.

By Marc Harshman

Editor’s Note:  This poem was read aloud at the celebration of the life of Kaye Thomas, wife of Larry Thomas.