Come, Holy Spirit, bending or not bending the grasses, appearing or not above our heads in a tongue of flame, at hay harvest or when they plough in the orchards, or when snow covers crippled firs in the Sierra Nevada. I am only a human being: I need visible signs. I tire easily, building the stairway of abstraction. Many a time I asked, you know it well, that the statue in church lift its hand, only once, just once, for me. But I understand that signs must be human, therefore, call one person, anywhere on earth, not me-after all I have some decency- and allow me, when I look at that person, to marvel at you.
