O, solitude, in vintage grade

alpine climes. A quiet vigil, just

one morning, held in the

foreground of Presence, of

indwelling, steady on the

primacy of earthen trail,

my hands and face still

flush with morning fire. I

stopped to sit ‘longside the

marmot. We dallied in the

Holy, facing the east like the

orthodox. I looked over the

world through his eyes and

saw that it was good. Rising

then, above the trees, when I

reached the second lake, the

water was filled with chiming

crystal. Those voices rang with

ancient timbre in the glaciered

hollow. It took me seven years

to realize this is what the

shepherds might have heard.

These are not dreams, no mere

means of escaping the

dominionists. These are the

foretelling of restoration.

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