It is usually deep in the morning when we see the cowering circle with their hands in the mud, singing some hymn of creation. And in this breath there is fidelity. We each share some trivial recollection of the cars we traveled in when we were young. Of the figure who, remembering the days before seat-belts, would cast an arm across our shoulders at stop-lights. It seems nothing special, except for those who hold no such thought in mind.
I plucked three lemons from the bin, reasoning that vitamins might account for some part in wives tales. There is the cellular concern, the particular, and the spiritual. Which is less important than that we strain to hear something in the dawn, these voices rising, this earth beginning to clot like blood from god's veins.
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