Worship Without Words

I have joined them here this morning, 
the annual cicadas in the woods 
across the street. Worship has
no words here,
no shoulds,
only the ongoing
crescendo and decrescendo
of gratitude for life.
And for place.
Beneath the thrumming of cicadas and
the chipping of catbird young,
the woods are still, 
expectant,
waiting.

It is written that the Spirit moves
where it will,
like the wind winding
through the shadows
where I sit.
This moment, the Spirit 
has come,
blessing the ordinary life
of all who live among
the trees,
blessing the communion
between them and
the Eternal
and me.