Amy McCann HERE SPECIAL SUPPLICATIONS, INTERCESSIONS, AND PRAYERS MAY BE MADE Lord, please say what happened to that chimney abandoned in a Dakota field, and to my friend who found it? Wake up, he said, stopping the car. Careful oval stones ascended each other’s shoulders against a November sky so steely that dark wings of geese clanged like clappers in a heavy bell. I remember how he lifted from the ground the limp form of a fallen hawk—matted feathers, blood bone-dry—and I photographed its wings, which hung loose, delicately unhinged. Unto thee, unto thee, unto thee only does the soul rise from the body. I remember him holding me from behind. The soft words he spoke against my hair. Teach me, Lord, to be like the grass that surrounded us there: yielded to wind, but weirdly alert, wild in its reaching—   Copyright © 2005 by Amy McCann. All rights reserved.