And the wind whispered hosannahs. The clouds paused processing in their gorgeous vestments. Geckos ceased their skitterings and genuflected. I let out my breath in a long slow prayer: Introibo ad altare Dei.
Teilhard de Chardin called one of his essays "The Mass on the World." Sunrise is my daily Mass.
I think of an image of Mary Oliver, in a poem called Morning in a New Land:
I stood like Adam in his lonely garden
On that first morning, shaken out of sleep,
Rubbing hs eyes, listening, parting the leaves,
Like tissue on some vast, incredible gift.