In a godless time, I've heard,
men still scan heaven for signs.
Without any faith at all

they query the gossipy bird--
seek meaning in squiggly lines
in the dust, a jagged scrawl

that must reveal something.
They stare at etchings in rock
and the striations in petals,

wonder why blossoms cling
to one wave.  Out of a flock,
they'll notice, one settles

close by, as if for a chat.
But take no notice of that
unless you live in a flat

and terrible time. You alone
know if you need such wisdom
as what is heard in the hum

given off in the heat of a stone.
 

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