We give the names to absent grace, the promise busted, the faith played out. Ashes dance to articulate the intracies of the wind, we name to express our other unknowns, father sky to mother earth. The smoke goes, so there must be fire. The story always trips itself on the tongue that does the telling.
Our conscripted intercessors must pity our silly prayers, screeds against nature, claims against death. As if every minute had to decry the clockworks. As if every point could only end in daggers. Calling for someone to focus because we wouldn't wear glasses. Calling out the law because we can't get by without crime. Holy and hell just some bluff got out of hand, the stakes raised just because we forgot to fold.
The scrub jay riddles its way through the pine tree, so arrives this wish for wings. People whisper and hush, the silty incence slowly stifles. The air seems to take a seat and wait for the fated wind. A fatwa of roads and deisel engines, rumbling at the foreground of the call of some far off lonesome train. All this written on the walls of each vein, the blood signing off before the finger feels the prick. The miracle the noticing at all, our minds so full of mysterious ways.