Between a Hawk and a Hang-Glider

On a mountain near Piancavallo,
I met God one afternoon;
after the snow-dusting had faded,
alone except for a hang-glider fluttering
and a distant hawk graceful in the air,
circling the thermals—
a moment of oneness:  enlightened;
anointed.  In those sacrosanct minutes:
a stillness that stretched out forever;
the wind that brought the afternoon rain
cooled my warm spirit
longing to be the lift under the hawk’s wingspan,
past the gravity.
The Lord walked in the cool of the day,
rustled the shades of green
painting the crown of the Dolomites—
there were no words, but I understood.