Where The Birds Fly

Do we need to ask if God exists

when we can feel the bark of a tree and know it is true?

I once felt the need to call myself an atheist,

a young man’s attempt at being rebellious, a self-named revolutionary,

reading too many stories about Che Guevara.

But, as the years have passed, and the fine wrinkles 

have visited my face, along with the suffering that has accumulated 

on still strong shoulders, I see the closed eyes of those who have passed behind me,

and have witnessed the angels come to gather them.

And now, with sturdy legs, I walk the trail, aware of my steps on worn soil,

realizing that God walks with me, among the deer, and has been there all this time. 

I pray looking up somewhere between the trees and clouds, 

where the birds fly without burden, close to heaven.