At a crossroad, when you slow down,
you might notice that god has bailed out
without a nod, on the passenger side.
If thoughts of god remain in your mind,
they will coalesce and dissolve
in the day’s orange and purple wash.
In the morning, solitary birds wake
to dance with angels in the arms of trees.
Children of earth sing with the saints.
Those gambols will be imitated.
The songs will be recorded, transcribed,
shelved and forgotten by all
but the pale souls who sort stacks
of silence within which are signals
to god to come back to us.
Out of compassion or sleep deprivation
you might pull off the highway,
lean over and open the door for god.
Driving with god beats wondering
where god disappeared to, or whether
god, gone so long, had ceased to exist.
With god next to you, clouds relax and mingle.
Nervous dogs feel safe with strangers.
Emergency faith is stashed to make room
for god the pauper, beggar, orphan, hobo,
and hitchhiker, reappearing today
to restore old wheels of turning seasons,
tease new revelations, bless departures,
give clues to disappearances
for soul-doctors to ponder for pay
without having to admit in their notes
what they might know to be true: apathy
and cruelty bring on the same pain.