Window Seat Ruminations near the Final Destination of a Late Night Flight

The lair of God

Is without limits,

But must be searched

For signs of a presence.

From below,

By looking up.

From above,

By looking down.

Where

Just now,

At the very edge

Of the far horizon,

Lightning

Bursts unexpectedly into a dome

Of jittery and violent fire,

Shattering at once the darkness,

And then subsiding.

Where, too,

In this moment,

On the vast plain

Of darkness below,

Light

From scattered cities

Collects in tremulous pools

And wrests from obscurity

The physical sense of human habitation.

Where,

To the east,

By infinitesimal degrees,

The ambient air

Slowly silvers

Until it surrenders

To a slash

Of crimson and orange.

In continuing the miracle

Of its incessant turning,

Earth

Rolls its face

Once more

Toward the sun.

And it is there,

Just there,

In the first moments of a new dawn,

In the first fullness of received light,

That God's presence

Is revealed.

Made manifest.