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.