I am drawing a map from the sea to the sky.
A Canticle to the Waterbirds
Clack your beaks you cormorants and kittiwakes,North on those rock-croppings finger-jutted into the rough Pacific surge;You migratory terns and pipers who leave but the temporal clawtrack written on sandbars there of your presence;Grebes and pelicans; you comber-picking scoters and you shorelong gulls;All you keepers of the coastline north of here to the Mendocino beaches;All you beyond upon the cliff-face thwarting the surf at Hecate Head;Hovering the under-surge where the cold Columbia grapples at the bar;North yet to the Sound, whose islands float like a sown flurry of chips upon the sea;Break wide your harsh and salt-encrusted beaks unmade for songAnd say a praise up to the Lord.And you freshwater egrets east in the flooded marshlands skirting the sea-level rivers, white one-legged watchers of shallows;Broad-headed kingfishers minnow-hunting from willow stems on meandering valley sloughs;You too, you herons, blue and supple-throated, stately, taking the air majestical in the sun-flooded San Joaquin,Grading down on your belted wings from the upper lights of sunset,Mating over the willow clumps or where the flatwater rice fields shimmer;You killdeer, high night-criers, far in the moon-suffusion sky;Bitterns, sand-waders, all shore-walkers, all roost-keepers,Populates of the ‘dobe cliffs of the Sacramento;Open your water-dartling beaks,And make a praise up to the Lord.For you hold the heart of His mighty fastnesses,And shape the life of His indeterminate realms.You are everywhere on the lonesome shores of His wide creation.You keep seclusion where no man may go, giving Him praise;Nor may a woman come to lift like your cleaving flight her clear contralto songTo honor the spindrift gifts of His soft abundance.You sanctify His hermitage rocks where no holy priest may kneel to adore, nor holy nun assist;And where His true communion-keepers are not enabled to enter.And well may you say His praises, birds, for your waysAre verved with the secret skills of His inclinations,And your habits plaited and rare with the subdued elaboration of His intricate craft;Your days intent with the direct astuteness needful for His outworking,And your nights alive with the dense repose of His infinite sleep.You are His secretive charges and you serve His secretive ends,In His clouded, mist-conditioned stations, in His murk,Obscure in your matted nestings, immured in His limitless ranges.He makes you penetrate through dark interstitial joinings of His thicketed kingdoms,And keep your concourse in the deeps of His shadowed world.Your ways are mild but earnest, your manners grave,Your customs carefully schooled to the note of His serious mien.You hold the prime condition of His clean creating,And the swift compliance with which you serve His minor meansSpeaks of the constancy with which you hold Him.For what is your high flight forever going home to your first beginnings,But such a testament to your devotion?You hold His outstretched world beneath your wings, and mount upon His storms,And keep your sheer wind-lidded sight upon the vast perspectives of His mazy latitudes.But mostly it is your way you bear existence wholly within the context of His utter will and are untroubled.Day upon day you do not reckon, nor scrutinize tomorrow, nor multiply the nightfalls with a rash concern,But rather assume each instant as warrant sufficient of His final seal.Wholly in Providence you spring, and when you die you look on death in clarity unflinched,Go down, a clutch of feather ragged upon the brush;Or drop on water where you briefly lived, found food,And now yourselves made food for His deep current-keeping fish, and then are gone:Is left but the pinion-feather spinning a bit on the uproilWhere lately the dorsal cut clear air.You leave a silence. And this for you suffices, who are not of the ceremonials of man,And hence are not made sad to now forego them.Yours is of another order of being, and wholly it compels.But may you, birds, utterly seized in God’s supremacy,Austerely living under His austere eye—Yet may you teach a man a necessary thing to know,Which has to do of the strict conformity that creaturehood entails,And constitutes the prime commitment all things share.For God has given you the imponderable grace to be His verification,Outside the mulled incertitude of our forensic choices;That you, our lesser in the rich hegemony of Being,May serve as testament to what a creature is,And what creation owes.Curlews, stilts and scissor-tails, beachcomber gulls,Wave-haunters, shore-keepers, rockhead-holders, all cape-top vigilantes,Now give God praise.Send up the strict articulation of your throats,And say His name.
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picture this: we're all demons, and the atmosphere is our world. haunt.at is our compendium. it assembles traces from across the atmosphere. all of you are assigned a unique color scheme, layout, and sigil based on your DID. summon your friends. summon the ops. manifest something. have fun!
haunted.at — an atmosphere compendium
haunt.at
