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he turns upside down, his four paws in the air and his eyes dark and fervent. Tell me you love me, he says. Tell me again. Could there be a sweeter arrangement? Over and over he gets to ask it. I get to tell.
Does the hummingbird think he himself invented his crimson throat? He is wiser than that, I think.
I don’t know where prayers go, or what they do. Do cats pray, while they sleep half-asleep in the sun?
I thought, of the wren’s singing, what could this be if it isn’t a prayer?
