Dusk.
The sky streaked with purples and reds so bright and vivid that it looks like the heavens were doused and set ablaze.
The whole world burning with a holy fire.
Burning in a holy fire.
Our father is not in heaven, but in the dirt and the trees and the hot Santa Ana winds and the arctic cold that burrows into your bones.
Our father dwells not in a kingdom of many mansions, but rather in the deep fissures of the earth and the space between the atoms and the unseen barely-theres that make up totality.
Mescalito wrapped in rags, thundering out of the desert on a steed of pure light and energy and heat.
From Texas to the United Kingdom people hear unexplained noises and feel strange vibrations emanating from deep in the earth. Mysterious thuds and hammering sounds from the bowels of the planet. A deep thrumming that rattles window panes and sets nerves skittering.
Maybe it’s just the God of the earth and the mud and the skies, tapping out a message through the bedrock.
“Don’t be afraid,” She says in a cosmic Morse Code that we can’t begin to understand. “Don’t be afraid, and please – stop fucking around.”
