Even the birds are drawn
to the face of Whitestone Rock:
Golden Eagle, Bald Eagle, Osprey,
and the Blue Heron,
with its long, liquid wings.
We are gathered in prayer,
trespasses forgiven, under the shade
of an eight hundred foot cliff.
Its granite face, bathed in wisdom,
looks down upon us;
give us this day, and forgive us.
Absolution comes swiftly,
because it was always there,
where the trout jump in celebration,
and feast on dragonflies, butterflies,
mosquitoes, and scraps of our bread.
The Columbia, whose waters never end,
like the reflection of our souls
naked and frail,
baptized in cold water,
as we float on our backs,
and look up at the altar.