He touches down two feet away to look at me with one eye, and then he snatches
a few loose bits of the cotton tassels of the doorstep rug. When he has as much as
his beak will hold, he flies away, and I know that God is in the little sparrow.
Your spirit reaches me from so far away. If I exist as a heathen and do not
convene with congregation to chant or sing in unison for a common belief,
it is not because I’ve abandoned hope. In my oneness, I admit the magic and
the beauty, the spirit of infinity in a singular fleeting moment.