CONVINCED
I am convinced the world is a beautiful place;
not real, not tangible, just beautiful. Possessed of
its moments, in charge of its own matter, and imparting
to us the reams of precision we sometimes need and
other times demand. There is nothing like it in the world.
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The spinnaker spins, and the weaver weaves. The gentle
flow of salvation gutters us and throws us down, heaving
undulations like a ripple to the shore; steady, slow, regular
and gentle - possessing a rhythm all of its own. I've seen
the red-tailed hawk, in swiftest dive, bow to agree with me.
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The surface of yonder river, it ripples and glazes,
reflecting a light from the heavens yet of the
land. The pure, faint drive of its energy pulses,
forwarding the push of its way, driving the silted
channel. In the center, years of accumulation have
made a small island - trees took root and, caught
in glory, grew. Now, its stands apart from, yet part
of, every other thing, as we are here watching.
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I am convinced the world is a beautiful place.
Not real. Not tangible. Just beautiful.
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