Age of Faith

A summer squall changed the

world this afternoon, for

soil dry, for thirst of

finches slaked in

blossoms, for the

withered mind.

Mountain monsoons

raise the dead when

lighted vapors filled

with the spirit of fresh cut

sage return to sky. I

sauntered with the God of

dogs til dusk, whistling

Danny Boy, the words

unremembered but for

the pipes, the pipes are

calling. It is for few to

understand the

age in which we

live. Most do not

see that our

stories are falling

from our books,

come unbound, pages

torn and twisting in the

cyclone zeitgeist. Each

generation carries

its own weight and

gives itself its own

name. Each generation

goes the way of the

grayling. In the new earth

everything belongs and

all good things must

arrive at their

beginning. We are

early in our history; only

at the end of our birth. There

were those unknown who

walked in light. They saw the

likes of Augustine and

chose another way.