Sunday morning in the church of air,
great blue heron hunched over the good
book, chapters and verses swirling
about his legs.
Never the same river,
always the same word—history, proverb,
psalm, parable—and the one sermon
in many tongues season to season,
moment to moment, whether
I attend or not.
Pews of lichened granite,
obsidian cherts that caught the light
before landing among the grasses
and fallen leaves:
the wood ducks
in the high windows know it all
by heart. Small birds with names
I don’t recall
sound from sycamores
like bells.
And none of this depends
on me, though I see now that somehow
I depend on it—the river, the stooped
heron and the one rising on great wings
above its reflection, the Yokuts family
at home here
in the ouzel’s inner eyelid,
the wood ducks with their deep
memories
and the small birds
with their bells—
you and I depend
on this whether or not we’ve ever
darkened the slim doorway,
lifted the latch that’s everywhere.