To catch sight of the sunbird among the leaves.
To hear the dove cooing in the trees. 
The ear must become inattentive.
The eye must lose its focus.

Sparkling creatures flicker on the periphery.
Only when the mind is still does the heart begin to move.
Flashes and glimpses of the fluttering Spirit.
Not in the bustle but aside beneath a tree.

Come away for awhile, says my Savior. 
The Dove would speak to the soul. 
Hands and head be still.
Sit quietly and wait for the bird to descend.

Listen to its quiet cheeping.
Watch the whirl and flitter.
Stand to catch it or speak and it’s gone. 
Revelation flutters softly in ephemeral stillness.