 Some worship at the feet of roadkill, some worship at the feet of deities, at the feet of gurus, at the feet of dead prophets, at the feet of stone idols, in churches, in temples, in mosques, in Mecca. Others worship at the feet of roadkill, at the feet of the dead roux by the side of the freeway, at the feet of the cat who crawled its way onto the nature strip and died after being clipped by the wheel of a Toyota Camry. They worship at the feet of a stranger's eyes, at the feet of steam-rolled wives, at the feet of circling birds in a cloudy sky, at the feet of a stifled intersection packed with logos for fast food and fossil fuels. Moving through life open-hearted, cathedral-hearted, moon-hearted, eyes full of frog croaks and black angel feathers, worshipping at the feet of creaky screen doors and the smell of Windex. They don't chase goals or yearn for distant mind fluff. They worship the air in the nostrils and the crackling energy in the body. They have torrid affairs with the sounds of trains and traffic. They make love to the spaces between power lines. Some worship at the feet of discarded toys, at the feet of lipstick smears, at the feet of janitor's closets, at the feet of sidewalk puddles, at the feet of gum leaves rustling in the wind. They don't go to church because they feel the ancient owls at the center of their being. They are in touch with something that is older than the atoms. They lie prostrate in the parking garage.