A pilgrim approaches the waters His heart on the palm of his hand, A burning matchstick, to quench.

The psalm of water is written on trees. Each calligraphic line, laced with gold, Shifts on the green parchment with sun.

A squadron of jet black wings, hover Inches above the whirl and spray. What Is the object that these dragonflies desire?

A cardinal with its Greek helmet of crimson plume Follows a robin armored in a breastplate of Roman red, Pecking the ground. They don’t want him in ménage-a-trios.

He goes chanting a line of Rilke’s, “Whoever has no home now, Will have no home then.” The summer wind, coolly, writes him Into the big book of moments, breaths, prayers – the world.