When heaven writes the dream. Stacking wood for a fire that may never come. Preparing for something beyond my own description or explanation, but somehow knowing that it is going to be just fine. I sit close to the waterline watching the striders chase the moonlight as the son rescues the day from night’s kidnapping.

What swirls loft the clouds toward Cielo. The burnt orange and crimson of August’s herald leave their calling card for all to marvel. Soon the frost will gather all to slumber for a season. What peace arrives in the wake of cold, dark winter that nights converge to silence all ambition?

How can life be kept safe, when it is this shepherd’s call to stand with crook and sling? On mountain free and cliffs protected the sloping mount gives breath to those threatened by bullies and believers. Is the retelling of a story corrected, retold in the slanted perspective of the wanton viable for reason’s porting?

We are here. Positioned for the battles and peace agreements as signals of wars won so long ago. Upon the dusty mount the feigners gather in their misunderstanding of power and surety. All crooked skyward to watch the whirlwind and dawn’s panorama. When sleep is lost all will find the gravity of God’s calling.