It’s how the mountain hangs there, in rags of cloud or haze: ghost shapes shiftless in blue winter air verging on the mania of spring. * There are afternoons when all thought is lost to song —the vibratory pull of God, this ceaseless reach within any living thing. * In an empty church in the middle of the day, dark but for stained glass flooded with sun, a prayer held in the breath in my hands.
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“The vibratory pull of God” is stellar
Oh my goodness. I don't know where to begin. Perfection is the only word that comes to mind.