Patient.

SMALL GODS

My hope is that this minuscule prayer

will reach out to the god unknown I just sensed

passing in the rivulet of breeze above the mere rivulet

of water in this small arroyo. To the skittering insect

this place is as large as the Sea of Galilee.

In prayer I’m a complicated insect, moving

this way and that. The insect before me puzzles

over its current god, my dog Zilpha, who watches

with furrowed brow and thinks, “Should I paw

at this bug in this shallow pool, bite it, roll

on it in this tiny creek in the late afternoon heat,

or perhaps take another nap?” She looks at her god,

which is me, understanding as her eyes close

that the gods make up their minds as they go.

They are as patient as the water in which they live,

and won’t be surprised when they reach the sea

with their vast collection of reflections, the man, the dog,

the stars and moon and clouds, the javelina and countless

birds, bugs and minnows, the delicate sips of rattlers,

the boughs of mesquite, the carapace of the desert tortoise,

the heron footprints, the water’s memories of earth.

Jim Harrison