By: Austin Grimm

Why, who makes much of a miracle?

As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles,

Whether I fly over the American country, 

Or talk to strangers along the road, 

Or drift away in the ocean blue with peace, love, and comforting joy,

Or watch the dogs run with great energy throughout the grassy, open field,

Or birds feasting upon the seeds left in the bird feeder outside my house,

Or drive endlessly on the open road, 

Or walk in the busy summer day streets of Ocean City,

Or stare into the pond and open yard while sitting on my deck, 

Or see each car that passes me by with countless life sitting inside,

Or experience the happiness each day of the sun rising and setting, welcoming and greeting the sky,

Or lay on my back at night looking endlessly into the sky, watching the stars and planets in their bright beauty,  

Or the young plants grow and blossom when they find the time is right,

These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, 

The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.

To me every day and life is a miracle,

Every person and thing is a miracle, 

Every speck of dust and piece of grass is created the same,

Every particle and planet with the same,

To me space is a continual miracle,

The planets that orbit – the stars – the supernovas that are created, 

What stranger miracles are there?