During the lonely night of universal disagreement, I listened to the coyotes’ wincing cries. I considered our divided histories of moons waning and moons waxing, and
still, no peace between us.
Lamenting our mutual suspicions, I thought to befriend and encourage, but knew better and struggled, instead, to sleep. But the ravens, crying for reconciliation, swept me up on dream carved wings.
Following coyote tracks, they flew me through tunneling canyons and antiquated coliseums, between Eden’s gates and into an expense of thornless flora and feathery fauna.
At the center, rooted in truth, grew The Mercy Tree, the fruit of which requires no crushing.
There, coyotes frolicked like puppies, raised their noses, flared their nostrils, and sampled sage perfumes, black berry marrow and rosemary aperitifs.
How had I wandered so far?
In the currency of dreams, the answer arrived through the annals of history. Before I could turn away, I saw the Liar slip his tongue — aroused by purity, driven by greed, distorted by failure and divided by envy— into the world’s fertile mouth and plant The Grave Deception.
The poisonous logic, weighted disproportionately between brain and belly points of view, thrived and subdued the heart’s blending power. The brain bulged on one shore. The belly begged on the other.
In the sacred hollow between, Jesus, the Triune Eternal Oneness, stood, arms extended, welcoming all men and all women and, most shocking of all, me.
“Come home, dear children, come home. Receive back your hearts and come home,” He said.