"I have been trying to read 
          the script cut in these hills— 
          a language carved in the shimmer of stubble 
          and the solid lines of soil, spoken 
          in the thud of apples falling 
          and the rasp of corn stalks finally bare.
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          The pheasants shout it with a rusty creak 
          as they gather in the fallen grain, 
          the blackbirds sing it 
          over their shoulders in parting, 
          and gold leaf illuminates the manuscript 
          where it is written in the trees.
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          Transcribed onto my human tongue 
          I believe it might sound like a lullaby, 
          or the simplest grace at table. 
          Across the gathering stillness 
          simply this: "For all that we have received, 
          dear God, make us truly grateful."
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          ~ Lynn Ungar ~
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          (Blessing the Bread)
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