Sunday morning, ten o’clock.
The gates swing open, the faithful
trickle in. Blue-shirted acolytes
admit us. Red-suited shepherds
keep watch over their flock. 

We enter this holy space bearing
towels, sunscreen, books.
We call it “going to church”
and it is. Don’t we have the blue vault
above us, held up the the ribs of trees?

Don’t we have the holy silence, broken
only by bird choir? Aren’t we graced
with the brightness of cardinal, blessed
by the hawk who circles above,
three times for trinity?

We enter the water and are returned
to ourselves. We share eucharist
of coffee and donuts, chips and soda.
We honor Sabbath by slowing down,
reveling in rest. 

“Praise the pool!” cries the celebrant.
“Amen, amen!” the congregation replies.