White lines dart past, reflecting on my window
as David Crowder, voice raw with emotion, sings
“bask in His glory.”
The last notes of the poignant guitar fade out,
but the pavement stretches on for hours.
Glancing past the passenger seat, I catch
a glimpse in the tiny mirror.
The grasses of the prairie dance
as the earth’s breath blows past,
turning into a glorious sea of grey, brown, and gold.
An austere tree stands,
every twig reaching toward
wisps of clouds stretching across the expanse.
Pastel blues, pale aquas,
gentle pinks, the lightest indigo
and the most delicate gold run together
each revealed in its distinct splendor
and glowing with an angelic light,
barely veiling the glory of the dusk’s sun.