Beauty has a way of sinking into everything we do like a time-lapse photograph of dark flowers blossoming out of everything Wh…
The hills above The Dalles
are striped with snow and last year’s stubble.
Hawks hunt along the rows.
The hills were shouting God,
the trees were shouting God,
the fence-posts and frozen puddles
all joined the silent chorus.
The road under my wheels was shouting God,
and I too, I was shouting God,
God, God, there is no other.
The hills are shouting God!