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The Second Text

One ordinary morning I walked into the park past maples, elms, the ancient pines. Pigeons were davening, pious among the bushes. A few words fell from the Book of Nature (that other text written by the finger of God) their letters scattered along the path. The squirrels went rigid, seized by the spirit. Silence. A sudden shudder in everything— rocks, brown pond, creatures, the sky. I knelt to observe what letters I could. Words sprouted and grew from the world behind this world... Read More