Waiting for Doves

I feel the first warmth
of sun and hear the small songs
of small birds first singing…
heaven is everywhere
I am. Here,
in the empty beauty
of the desert, I have no name.
The past is an old dog barking, in fear, at a cloud.

Doves murmur praise: “OM, OM, OM.”

Lifted up by the flute notes of music,
I agree with God. It is good.
The world, on its own,
is enough.

As nature is my soul
I promise to die with gratitude—
to die by the teeth of wild animals if I must.