If I pass through
On the highway
I might think God
Had a bad day
In that frantic week
Of Creation. Maybe
She made a mistake,
Broke the shovel,
Ran out of gas.
I might think that
Until I slow down,
Edge off the road,
Cross the barrow pit,
Climb over the barbed
Wire fence, walk
Through grass until far
From the highway, far
From the rumble of big rigs
Eating the miles.
Out here I hear
The earth breathe secrets.
Here there are no edges,
Nothing limits my vision,
A place I might stay
If I have no fear
Of losing my surface self.
Then I get it—
This is where God
Comes to rest,
A Sabbath Country.
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