the pelicans' te deum

here in a straight veined

accumulator of waters,

birthed by several unnamed creeks and springs,

channeled and dried,

reclaimed to field,

found useless,

too wet for plow,

allowed her freedom, though scarred,

along a faint path

by the unbent abandoned canal

is the church i prayed in today.

here where lily pads

wait from bank to bank,

shelter for small fish,

cover for predator,

joined by a congregation

of egrets in a holy tree,

peace before meal,

crayfish rooted

in the sacred muddy waters at my feet

a choir of pelicans,

monk like on the far shore, sang te deum.

overseen by redtail, a stern bishop,

maintaining order, humility.

prayer rose,

in the same breeze

that genuflected cattail,

a breeze carrying away

the sweat from my chin,

losing it to the dirt at my feet.

prayer as ancient as the sheet of ice

that created this resting place,

prayer for nothing,

asking nothing,

simply prayer

thankful for the comfort

that my body was rooted to an earth

waiting for it to never move again.