Streaks of light stream
from veins in the rocks.
The same with the birds,
and the sky with the birds in it.
Music rises up out of trees,
and out of dirt, low, deep music.
Even dark houses shimmer,
And the people on the benches,
the old guy by the bus stop,
either waiting for the 6:15
or just woke up after a night there,
his old coat, his rumpled head,
light beaming out.
Even from your most earnest labor,
your most ragged sorrow.
without thought of glory,
light leaks out, music escapes.
The best we can do
in this miraculous world
as a low pressure area
disperses a fog of inattentiveness.
light coming, if not from above,