Warmed by the sparrows perched atop the trees, I go, to make my presence known to thee, along a path that winds and yet is still, ready to carry out God's every Will.
I go by fresh-cut lawns of fragrant grass, passing the wake of negligence and mask, my present penitence a marvel, too, if one could but behold it as I do.
If God were a prediction, I would know just what to say, the luck of a stone's throw into a bush to strike apparent things, things I've been told exist, but haven't seen
with mine own eyes to tell me what is true. What is there? How can I know, yet refuse such things as might be necessary if there is indeed no thing hidden within?
But God is predilection and a hunch, the only sacred thing I've ever known to guide me thence, from stationary rut, to lofty heights of excellence and prose.