Lord, Do You tire of being perfect?

From this promotory
Where geese dot the
distance over open waters
In semetry going to greet the dawn
They realize before us all,
Before the dot of orange,
Turning to flame,
Peeks above the endless forest,
Like a razor standing up the
pines upon the balding rock
As though to make a haircut
Of the new day,
I am ready to believe
That every moment belongs
to God's perfection
No dot in error
And not a hair on the head
Unaccounted for.