Kiss the ground

Yesterday afternoon as the sun’s loving eye burned through the fog covering the summer field I photographed a dozen three-second-resting common buckeyes and field crescents with my phone. Each time the shutter clicked their wings would clam up, and off they’d flit away, dancing, poised a few steps down the path, and a bird in the pines above would echo the shutter’s quick trill. It took patience and many outtakes, but now I can view their quick wing openings on a small screen and study just how joyfully and compassionately they were crafted: black stripes against gold and bronze. Only Roualt in his strong stained-glasslike painted masterpieces of Christ would understand what goes into such creation. Dots of camouflage, also ringed in black, in fine blues and coppers make eyes in the back of their heads, so to speak. Maybe this is what the prophet Ezekiel saw: wings and eyes and wheels within wheels in all directions lifting and settling, with angel birds whispering holy holy in the trees. The creatures come, they go, they kiss the ground around, and from this holy distance they have no idea how much they mean.
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