Jul 26, 2012
— Calvin Luther Martin (Summer 1994)
The road comes up from the river and runs away through fields of clover and grass. Growing daisy and buttercup like any old hayfield —I faithfully visit each summer to smell and feel such joy. This being its sole concern. And now is mine. I have come to join creation performing itself in beauty.
Here, surrounded, is my favorite place to run.
I run for this only—for praise, not to pace off space. To fill in-sucking lungs with pungency, the sweetness and musk, heat and summer brightness of this place.
I run to feed the silent furnace by my salt and sweat, brushing air’s low vapors. Watching wind move fields and me, in the soul, in shapes and patterns as rain does water. There is utter joy moving here.
I run for meadowlark and bobolink hatched, fledged, singing these very fields. Praise to prairie things in tongues born of that holy grass. Hearing its own voice grown.
My own breathes only, till I reach the line of trees to say only how they are so beautiful.