She leaves again.
One stands in the rain with a broken gutter and no shoes.
A crow watches from the nearby pine tree.
She does not read anymore the secret runes.
Or perhaps we are mistaken.
We write in vain when we write for those who are not yet ready to leave.
Some women build temples in order to find a lonely priest.
Some priests wade a long time through rivers, trying out new songs with which to win the lonesome women.
He made benches until the Lord asked would he build something new.
That offer goes out to everyone for all time forever.
You say yes.
You wait for the ones who said yes.
The dim road lightens in the company of the familiar.
She comes, her mouth gold with praise.
You eat it hungrily.
We were hungry together once and then taught each other how to eat.
In my dreams, Jesus waits patiently, while I stand at the pasture's edge and call my dead brother's name over and over into the gathering darkness.
Black birds come to the feeder.
What can deer do about the rain but bear it as they leave the thicket to feed?
Near the edge of the village - the one we all grew up in - she turns back: we go on, together, into the desert.