In the morning thunder is the message, the godhead spurring
her from sleep, shaking her lucid, demanding her to rise, run,
go to the mountain and request the journey. Return to her
dead family, return to her burned home, return to her friends
echoes, their forms metamorphosed into ghosts. And in the
night, all is silent, the storm having passed, the godhead gone.
And in the longest hours she lingers questioning, where the
lightning came, why it flashed, how it struck her flesh, stole
her comfort, seared her bones, electrified her numb, and why
she answered the thunder’s call, why she ever thought to
trust a god, and its wares, peddling its new lives and journeys
she comes to doubt all things above her, all things bright and
hot and shining. When she sleeps, the godhead comes, and
fills her with truth and gratitude and love and bravery. Years
now…
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