There are evenings when God walks in this field—
yes, this one, all waist-high grass and stunted cedar
with a slough down the middle like a scar,
where my friend, the gentleman farmer, once sowed wheat and, as others had before him, harvested rock;
this field, which soon a man who senses the possibilities in hopelessness will pave into an upscale strip mall,
with spa, two restaurants, a chiropractor and a liquor store; here, in this wasteland, God walks—the wind with him like an entourage, and the voles, the coyotes,
the feral cats, even the skeptical hawks bow and follow, blessed for a moment by a joy they cannot understand.
Taken from the book “In the Night Speaking” with permission from the author.