At dusk, grey bats careen across the lake's face,
their hungry mouths gaping.  The bats, shadows
stealing the length of the lake, ensnare us also.

In the morning, aerial displays.  Barn swallows,
rufous throats catching light, skim the air,
chattering.  I lie in the lake and admire their
forked tails, two roads diverging, matter and
spirit bundled at the juncture of the heart.  

My arms, outspread and floating as they are,
cannot raise me any closer to God than this:
the great mouth of the sun on the expanse of
the lapping lake; my body like the swallow's
tail, knowing both journeys, straining to
catch every drop of light;

the pass of my trembling hand on the water,
always moving with the pull of some great
eternal breath.