Carolyn Miller

No ladders, no descending angels, no voice out of the whirlwind, no rending of the veil, or chariot in the sky—only water rising and falling in breathing springs and seeping up through limestone, aquifers filling and flowing over, russet stands of prairie grass and dark pupils of black-eyed Susans. Only the fixed and wandering stars: Orion rising sideways, Jupiter traversing the southwest like a great firefly, Venus trembling and faceted in the west—and the moon, appearing suddenly over your shoulder, brimming and ovoid, ripe with light, lifting slowly, deliberately, wobbling slightly, while far below, the faithful sea rises up and follows.