“I don’t know what a prayer is…” - Mary Oliver


Crammed in a pew, reaching out for heaven 
with knees down never felt like a prayer.
Who granted me these legs that walk? And
who would keep me cloistered, coughing here?
In Christmas Valley, the bears don’t crowd 
around like nervous dogs—they walk,
they plod and use those magnificent claws
to gently open our invading cars.
In the Upper Truckee River, cutthroat
swim again against the current, crawdad
clamber over granite rock and not one
needs a pew for prayer. Nevertheless—

Grant that these legs will walk in peace,
in pines, in aspen, in the shimmering river’s run.