I have learned the Divine waits
in the squash growing in the ground,
in the Hawk's blank eye,
in the wild turkeys crossing Chabot Road,
in the deer nibbling acorn beside it,
in the pine cone that just fell,
and in the breeze drugged with lake
water, jasmine, and scat.
It waits inside the deep fog.
In backyard gardens.
Not in wheels and laptops,
not even in our houses,
Nor in he Bishop's ring or
It shies away from the man-made,
preferring its own designs:
Spit and surf, deer grass
and the blinks of our eyes.