I remember that early autumn morning—
I was taking a stroll
through the shadowy fields as usual.
The stallion I had befriended
had cantered off into the dissipating sunset
and I walked the trails

alone.

When did the night first fall?

It didn’t quite strike my mind,
but I knew that without sunset,

there was no sunrise.

While wandering through the forlorn hills,
marvel plastered itself on my face,

for beyond what seemed like void,

for beneath the inky, star-speckled skies


stood a boy.

The grassy plain was his home,

and survival was a necessity.


He lit a fire for the warmth it offered


but I splashed a bucket of lake water



on the kindling flames.

I kept rummaging through my old pile of clothes

To try to find an excuse

to justify my bloodthirsty exploits.

That boy I left in the fields

could be lifeless now,


just as the stallion left me.

Maybe I was angry
at the fleeing stallion,
at the soundless gateway,
at the vanishing gravity
beneath my crumbling feet.
And maybe I took the anger
on an innocent little boy
trying so hard
to establish something more.


He had been a prophet,
and not just of Him.
He had been a prophet of
sunrise and
new beginnings.