Thus vapor rose and a wading bird flew
when the Sun began its rituals. She sang
before the vault of heaven, the declination
or situation of the other stars resolved
before my eyes. The water had reflected
the thought of poets and mystics attempting
to describe the infinite. She had a dream
before my ears, a song before the canals
in various measures. She's the mist that I'm
without, the cloud I'm within, the poem I'm
making of the holy spirit. Yet, the Sun is
robbing the night of various stars, images
and epistles—then a great blue heron decides
to spread its wide wings and begin to pray.
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