I started a good book today, How the Light Gets In, and was so surprised to run across some lines from a poem I had just read in the past couple of days by Joy Harjo:
Some say God is a murderer for letting children and saints slip through his or her hands. Some call God a father of saints or a mother of demons. Lila had seen God and could tell you God was neither male nor female and made of absolutely everything of beauty, of wordlessness.
This unnameable thing of beauty is what shapes a flock of birds who know exactly when to turn together in flight in the winds used to make words. Everyone turns together though we may not see each other stacked in the invisible dimensions.
I'd already been thinking this would be a great thing to quote here, but then it was such an amazing coincidence to see these lines again today, I knew it had to happen. Enjoy!