Worshipping With Deer Poem by Bill Grace

The dome's vault blue
is clear,
Chicken Little is out of a job.
The acolytes come
softly floating from distant woods
across fields -
dog asks if there is some mistake -
thirty come to worship
minus three fawns
without one bell to call.

Light fades
the last hikers
retreat from the trails
even aircraft
passing overhead
seem muted.

The great cathedral
is deserted and silent
God listens
and from my butane lighter
a holy fire burns
as candles are not lit.