Thunder in two passes, half an hour apart, never all the way gone. Or was it moving in circles, the lightening behind clouds. When the rain followed, nearly an afterthought, a soft thrumming on the maples, we smelled smoke but found nothing burning. We cannot be either old or new gods, it is simply too late. He thought as the belt around his chest tightened and going from room to room. The air was cold, a long night, and made him think of hunger. It was familiar and included fears that were loyal, awfully, and longing.
There was a way that things were done. There were "ships that had sailed." And there were looks, conditions, caveats, meltings, utterances that lingered even as the traffic picked up going away. He woke or came to - the difference being largely lost on him now - from dreams of the sea on which a dozen white boats had voluntarily gone down. Emails pointed the way, maps were sketchy. But the conversation accelerated, it did, it gathered steam and then what.
But are we the ones inside it - you and I? Now even? Purple is minotaur, blue is angel hefting a chainsaw. "We are back at lack." And the word lair purposefully altered to liar. A drizzle remained as the light broke, a warm fruit pulverized by stone. His hands longed to hold seeds and part of him was already out in the forest where yesterday the bears.