God is walking on the hills in the wind.
He walks through the trees with his face uplifted
And his long white hair streaming back.
Yellow leaves fly on the wind,
And he stoops to pick one up.
He touches its cold smooth surface to his cheek,
And runs his finger gently along the little teeth on its edge,
Then releases it to fly to a new resting place,
While the wind flaps God’s white robes
And races past, pulling a toy cloud on a string.
A red-tailed hawk calls,
And God tilts his head to watch it circle.
He spreads his arms wide to catch the wind in his robes
And runs down a little slope.
“What a glorious day,” he says. “Come play with me!”