It is risen. It is risen in beauty. The reliable miracle, a couple of minutes later and a little farther south each day. The lesser miracle, the brief transubstantiation of black lava into glimmering red-violet and blue-green light in my observing and delighted eyes, has occurred, is over. The rough black rock keeps its secret. The daily hummingbird assaults existence with improbability. He is drawn to my orange tea mug. The big black heavy cattle munch and breathe and gaze, each with its following of small black birds. All living things work hard to make their living. I sit on the
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