A crow roosting on the dock flaps
by the water's edge
I take this as a blessing.
From high on this coiled trail,
I see a man step into the lake
and part the water
as if he held a sword of light
not a fishing pole.
In the thickets, bats cry their syllables
and phrases and so with awe
I stop my wheels
to better hear the choir sing.
And as the sun ebbs,
the whole lake glitters
as if a million tiny candles flicker,
as if saints and angels swim
among the fish.
Again I stop and strain my neck
toward this small church
below,
the one named Lake Chabot.
