Worship 1
Snoring. Prayer. Jackets. Water bottles. Late-comers. Free-floating anxiety squatting on the buttons of adrenaline. Interminable.
Then a grace, a clear space at last. Silence that hears nothing but itself. Silence that rolls down, then away. Molten lead that circles out, enveloping the feet of Friends on either side, pausing to think its impenetrable thoughts. Then making its attempt on ankles. Then legs. Climbing wombward, an impregnating blank. Climbing heartward, an arrow of wordless focus. A brevity in the soul. Empty-full air in the lungs. A blankness in the mind; blank, but not vacant. Present. Clear.
A crow is looking through the window from the sycamore out back.
He has just flown, and he’s about to fly. Our circle is the circle of light in his pupil. He is at attention. He transmits our silence, just for a moment.
