They hardly know we’re watching them,
Tired hunters crunching home at end of day.
Far less the women working at their spindle-whispy fires
Or the spindle-steepled trees.
They hardly know the hunters come trudging through the snow,
The spluttered skaters dizzy on the ice below.
Even less the swallows with their feathered spires
Or the homes whistling smoke-song into the frosty sky.
They hardly know we’re here at all,
The rising steeples made of rock, faces carved by God.
We repeat their upward-turning gesture
Even as we keep our frigid eyes on sod.
We hardly know they’re there,
The patterns that surround us,
The swirling, aspiring, uniform in all its forms,
The fingerprint of God.
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