A Rhythm of Three

Some ways down a wooded hillside
steeply set above a shoal, quiet
and still on a sandstone cropping
near that grove of elder oaks I knew
like friends from a place
that will always define home,
I sat with people and work
and wounds and dreams and hope
ever forward in my mind, ever seeking
winds that start as currents on the moldy
leaf path rising like a native signal
to the high limbs where turkeys roost,
launching like birdshot over the river,
stirring the soul that sits like I am sitting
by a brook with pools in each cell center
where prayer makes the molecules
dance to a rhythm of three.

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