His breath exhales like a steam engine
into the clear darkness
chugging along this gravel track
intent on a scent imprinted on the road
fully given over to the mystery
of those who came before.
The stars gleam haughtily from their
perch
like birds of prey
coolly observing our shadows
cast by the sickled moon.
My nose turns up, straining
to catch the scent of things to come.
We pause where the road bends beneath
the ash tree
its silhouette a paper cutout
against the moonlit barn.
And I wonder about Abraham
twenty years after that night,
clinging to a promise
grown paper-thin with time
crying at the stars
“How long, O Lord?”
Until, perhaps, he did not cry out at
all
but only stood bent and still
listening to the deep hum of nothing,
breath swirling away from the
goat-skinned flaps of his tent.
