By Kate Gray
The river says a prayer for all that’s gone.
The sky praises the sun for rising.
The earth aches on its axis, and its creak is a song.
The night murmurs and moves like a dog dreaming.
Wherever we step out of the wind, whatever we do
to build fire, we are not alone.
The limbs of the birch greet us with tapping.
The geese write our name in the sky.