A thousand glassy stars
in Horseshoe Lake,
then three coyote yowls
down the riverbed,
and the moon
a hundred feet away.
I can feel cottonwood
bending into
Milky Way’s spiral arms.
I can say "church"
and mean this place,
as in "of worship,"
any place removed from
human error, terror,
or harm, any space
alive with emptiness.
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