Closest

By Andrew R. Duckworth

I feel closest to God in the fields
With the rolling hills of yellow
Meeting the red rock that rockets
Towards the overhead sea of free.
God touched these lands,
And men touched these lands least
Leaving room for His fingers
To sculpt the clay.
There’s something refreshing
About wind whipping off the wilds
That coats you in a natural fresh
Felt by few others in the open air.
I feel closest to God looking at the
Work of His hands and not ours.