My Own Private Islam

The graceful buzzard,
on an early Spring high desert trail,
circling me with lava red beak,
wrong by a few thousand miles on my waiting car,
but not so far off that I don't respect him.
I've been looking at the stars lately,
really looking,
refusing to look away,
and that brings me happiness.
You only find religion in the desert,
in gardens maybe philosophy some times,
but that's like lighting a good cigar with a match:
a cigar but no class,
and so twenty years ago.
You know,
you're not far from the kingdom of heaven,
when you can see the awesome beauty of a well-survived scar.