PROCESSION

"It's not right," my wife said,

"to see him ahead of us.

I want to call him back

to tell him it is not time."

We were the fourth car

in the procession

this October day,

winding our way from town

up and down hills

rich in reds and oranges,

and yellows,

vibrant, specious colors,

precursors of winter's

white annihilation,

heading toward the land

he had labored

for half a century and more.

The minister had spoken of Psalm 8,

how David stared in wonder

at stars beyond number,

as though, I thought,

God had sprinkled

diamonds from his hand,

like salt from a shaker,

across a black sky

until the grains dispersed

beyond our vision.

Consider, the preacher had said,

how marvelous it is

that this same God

who created the constellations,

and galaxies untold and unseen,

could yet fashion us

in His very image,

and see in each of our lives

something precious enough

to warrant salvation.

But somehow I recalled

the dead raccoon

we passed on our way to town,

lying on the side of the road,

covered in the dust

raised by the indifferent tires.

As we returned, my wife said,

"It's alright now.

He is no longer ahead of us,

calling my name."

I thought of the stars

and the void between and beyond them,

and the raccoon's stubborn assertion

of a soulless mortality,

and the body once warm

we had just left in the ground

already covered with sere leaves

beneath a cold and lowering sky.