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Poem

They don't know him, but he knows them.
It's Revival time under the big tent of the sky
for the evangelicals among them (Billy's Boys),
and vespers for the liturgicals like me, prayer 
meeting for all, whether it's Wednesday or not.  
I used to wonder what this nightly heavenly 
glory story was all about, sangfroid from
a faith I was never baptized in.

They fly in without fail every day when day
is done; same hour, same place over water, where
following ritual circling, they make lake-fall 
for meditation until one of them by signal known
solely to the divine, flutters his feathers, and,
as if at Benediction, they lift again and drop again
in a rhythmic rosary the pagans named a wheel.

There are no words for the sea birds, only 
cries that break the sound barrier of the skies,
where they Were before earthly worship 
in the baptismal font of the faithful.
Lake water made sacrosanct

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