Round earth
Round sky
Bird’s eye
Catches in its compass all; all stones, trees
That gyrate, twirling in a head-spin.
He senses feathers, parted by the wind,
Straining taut and upcurled on a silken skin;
Precisely feels, with swift release of body heat,
A delicate, staccato chill from wing to wing.
Knowing what he knows,
But all unknowing that he knows,
He is what is.
Above, the sun, below
The leaf-whirl, rock-spin, traffic din.
He moves with what is moving.

And I, a man,
Caught up in the self-same go-round,
Am silenced, stilled and filled with praise
For being on this hill to see a bird fly.
One leg, an arm and half my face break sky
Half emerging
From the swirling colors of domed nature’s dream.
Paul Maurice Martin lives in Ridley Park, Pa., and is author of Original Faith: What Your Life Is Trying to Tell You. For more information visit www.originalfaith.com.