Even the smallest insects are singing, vibrating their entire bodies,

tiny violins of longing and desire. We were made for song.

I can’t tell you what prayer is, but I can take the breath

of the meadow into my mouth, and I can release it for the leaves’

green need. I want to tell you your life is a blue coal, a slice

of orange in the mouth, cut hay in the nostrils.
—Barbara Crooker

Parading