Last night I went looking for the birds scratching in the walls, only to dream the noise was water waiting to freeze. Birds are ingenious and nest where they aren’t welcome, causing moral and primal unease.
But untamed water is the mind of God, and there’s no way to contend with that.
You can shore up your defenses, proclaim your innocence, and pretend the meal is ready. But the fine mist that shrouds the falls keeps everyone unsteady.
Get back in bed, I tell myself, hoping this is good advice. There are birds in the walls, and their body heat is melting the December ice.
Three Fearsome Poets have taken wing. This explains the abrasions on your inner being. Those who have been granted souls must guard and keep them down and low. Otherwise, they’ll be murdered or enslaved.
As it should be, scream the Entitled and Depraved. In geologic time, those vastly rich will drown just below the surface of the calm.
The eggs will hatch, regardless. The young already know. I float naked over shoals of sediment and fish, gradually letting go. I only wish for covering and I see that it’s begun to snow.
Short visits with an honest God 