Here's the title poem of my next to last book. It's called Mayflies.

In sombre forest, when the sun was low,
I saw from unseen pools, a mist of flies
     In their quadrillions rise
And animate a ragged patch of glow
With sudden glittering - as when a crowd
        Of stars appear
Through a brief gap in black and driven cloud,
One arc of their great round-dance showing clear.
It was no muddled swarm I witnessed, for
In entrechats each fluttering insect there
        Rose two steep yards in air,
Then slowly floated down to climb once more,
So that they all composed a manifold
           And figured scene,
And seemed the weavers of some cloth of gold,
Or the fine pistons of some bright machine.
Watching those lifelong dancers of a day
As night closed in, I felt myself alone
       In a life too much my own,
More mortal in my separateness than they -
Unless, I thought, I had been called to be
          Not fly or star
But one whose task is joyfully to see
How fair the fiats of the caller are.

By no means all of my poems about natural things are religious in intention, but in this poem at any rate, one can clearly see that the natural world delights me by its order and that I attribute its order to the Creator.