On the red cliffs of East Rock sound—cellular its root buds bell one by one crowding the stones below electrons of quail skirr— above, a falcon talons a draft otherwise, barely a stir here where clutter purged and I am a swarm of welcome who sees atop a pawpaw bloom a swallowtail butterfly slowly, slowly lift as though the heft of air some sure thing unseen space agog in infinite small occurrences a ruffed grouse rouses thrum sweet against my ears Lindsay Rockwell—poet, earthling, oncologist—explores the shared landscape of poetry and the sacred. She’s recently published, or forthcoming, in Guernica, Poetry Northwest, Poet Lore, Tupelo Quarterly, RADAR, SWWIM every day, among others.…