The Father

July's ageless heat
Parted near midnight
And the breeze poured between the banks.

Cricket-chirp wrapped itself
Around wind through long grass,
The soundless lightning west,
Those sharp-edged days gone
Folded over and
Blurred.

It was fine, rare enough
That someone said
We should sleep uncovered.

A fire came up.

Food.

Scripture.

And the night moved through the branches.

Somewhere in the ink and silver,
Elohim lit upon the
Circling pine boughs
Above dying embers,
Sleeping us;
Impossibly
Perfect barbicels
Spilling over
Owl eyes
And knots.

I blinked the dirt,
The ash,
The stars,
The moon,
The edges
Of clouds,
And the improbable
Age and youth
Of the ends of all miles
Into my waking sight.

He asked if he could approach.

(He asked.)

"Don't call me Elohim,"

He said.