The Grace Of The Material World

When someone's dog slips its collar and runs across the yard to lick my hand or when a hummingbird stops and hovers right in front of me and slowly draws closer until it's close enough to bow upon the dazzled air and touch my nose (very gently) with the tip of it's microscopic beak or when the wind and the ocean and the stars cascading overhead suddenly blur together and become one thing, one seamless, immeasurable moment that leaves me melancholy and jubilant and near blind with tears

then by god, I know I'm doing my work, fulfilling my incomprehensible purpose, somehow.

I know this, not only when I gaze into the eyes of a cordial bird but when I encounter myself in a mirror and examine the fissures and scars that weave my flesh and my existence together into the beautiful myth that sustains me: it is a good face, I think,

with two eyes that have seen angels rejoicing and angels falling like hailstones from the heavens and mistook them both for scraps of brittle paper floating on the wind.

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