The lunatic sits under the firmament, waiting for the appointed time.
Tonight, both sides of the moon dark. A blood-moon. Blood cries from sky as well as the ground.
In a little patch of pasture grass between stands of pine, darkness falls slowly then all at once. Thunder off to the northwest, air heavy but cool. Sky thick with clouds.
The first lightning-bugs of the year hover along the tree line. A visage that once meant empty pickle jars with hole-poked lids. Remembered days of daisy chains and laughs. Does it mean anything now?
We are refugees from Babel. Once sky-gazers, mumbling in strange tongues. Huddled by fires against the darkness outside animal-skinned shelters. Looking for a sign from the sky. Now screen-gazers huddled inside, forsaking all but strange truths.
The appointed time passes, and the clouds will not part.
The Book says “A wicked and adulterous generation seeketh after a sign.”
The bulldog sighs.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go to bed.”
Words Not On Paper 