The Church at Pontatac
And the penitent trees
bow down at the rock altars of Pontatac.
And the deer are the ministers
Holding the Eucharist in their antlered fingers.
And the winds are the hymns
and the stars are the prayers
Here within this rustic congregation
of drying leaves and crippled creeks.
Here where the quiet Christians
scurry beneath the underbrush
between the bending light
that falls through the penitent trees
that have come to bow down
here, at the rock altars of Pontatac.