Light­ning is on the hills,
storms stir­ring dust, bleach­ing rocks
swirling through acts in an age­less play.

This place is our flesh, our bones, our blood;
this flash of light our souls’ fleet­ing his­to­ries
writ­ten in a blind­ing script.

This plain expanse of tall grass, this whis­per­ing:
This is our air. This sound, the wind, our empti­ness.
This voice is ours, call­ing us back, this mystery:

Redemp­tion in a breeze;
love a fire in rolling hills;
rap­ture in a crack of thun­der;
repose in sheets of sum­mer rain.

This touch is ours, this bap­tism:
The stones cry out our names
and wait for an answer.