Andrew - John 1
The musht picks up pebbles in its jaws, mistakes made in the rustle for sustenance. Like the fox, scattering dust grains,
transient feet searching orchards for whatever remains. Fallen apples or caterpillars. In trellis above, a collared dove trills for a mate.
When he’s found the one, he sweeps up, steeply, clapping his wings and spiraling like the tendrils of a grapevine. I’m always leaving
little hollows on the shore of the lake. I belong to the house of the hunt, trampling this basaltic spur because I know God exists
somewhere beyond rituals of sacrifice. Somewhere outside, a storm crackles and dies, baptizing
the fading night. Imitating waves, blurred with rain. Light will not abide, or stay in its place. I’m tired of tolerating
distraction. Weights and nets have to be unscrambled, the catch separated, for them to hold anything
fresh. This morning, dehydrated fishermen scrape the shoreline. Rain falls. Doves like me totter into whatever ragged homes we can find.