The warm, still air, gently lulls my senses
As I amble beneath the pale blue sky.
The cattle roam the hills, free of fences
And a distant low sounds like a gentle sigh.
A balmy breeze makes its way through the grass,
The tall green blades murmur as they wake.
Discontent, they await this age to pass;
They groan at their fate and curse the damned snake.
I’m caught in their eager expectation.
I listen and become strangely aware,
It’s to me they whisper adulation
And to heaven that they lift their prayer
“Reveal the glory of the sons of man
Make all things new, according to your plan.”