The white bellies of dead fish
loom among duckweed and rushes.
Crows have wings to enable them to escape death.
There are times I know that God
is most concerned with the fate of snails.
He builds them houses. We are not His favorites.
At night, the bus taking the football team home
leaves a white trail of dust.
The moon shines in the willow herb,
in concert with the evening star.
How near you are, immortality—in the wings of bats,
in the pair of headlights
nosing down the hill.