On this hot August night
under a full moon--
here at the root of the world
in this last age
in this lost age--
We the busy,
We the industrious, the insatiable,
the relentless and entitled,
scuttle.
Forever in a frenzied quest
to glut our spiraling obsessions,
We stack our possibilities like cordwood
against some future need,
some drama, some Oz,
some unobtainable bliss.
Down here at the foundation of it all,
Down here in the dirt,
We chew and grope and grasp.
Down here in the silt,
In the sluggish shared air of billions--
bodies on bodies--
We crawl over the inert and immobile,
the willing and the dead,
That make the quivering,
twitching, breathing bridges
over this obstacle or that.
Our antennae rake the electric air
for any new stir.
The scent of some new fact,
the chatter, the buzz, the tweet,
The strident staccato of data,
a quiver signaling some change
in our collective mind.
We scour the air for details--
Air saturated with our clamor
And teaming with our frantic feelers.
Air shimmering with electric information
that ripples through us all,
that melds us into one great body.
But on this August night a chosen few
Will feel the touch of God's invisible finger,
Will feel a strange tickling
right between the shoulder blades
and note with some alarm
a sprout of gauzy wing.
And these newly chosen--
these New Wing-ed few,
Will feel an odd longing
a homesickness,
an inexplicable yearning.
Will feel the lure of crisp and open air
the tug of boundlessness--of mystery.
And hear the silent hymn,
The whisper of the secret name
distilling on their newborn wings
And calling to their tiny hearts--
Arise.
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