the shape of trees against the barely-brightened morning is sacred.
the blinking red lights on cell towers against the dark orange and blue of the sky,
the beds of fog pressed into the valleys;
this is religion.
the hush of tires against the skin of the highway is more intimate than the love
where human beings go seeking salvation in a secular age.
the music playing in these billions of cars is the essence of a symphony,
the voices of people and brass and computers as one.
there is no alone here in the cold morning air;
breathe this and you breathe life.