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Midwest homestead cabin
with an atrium waiting room.
Women inside, one giving child.
The men outside, birthing anxiety.

Female communication
through the door,
silent joy within,
rippling without.

The door opens, the child
walks out, already aged two
by the wisdom of ages,
the bluest of knowing eyes
to tell me
the forgotten secret.

A voice thunders the heavens,
“Hear me, I am God.”
He walks towards the townsfolk
across the lake.

I speak in thunder
from our hilltop retreat,
“This man is not a God.”
(but rather, one of us)

We give chase, mighty chase
through the timbers.
He changes form to better
evade us, we had
forgotten we could shift
from form to form

and we chased this
deceiver of men
the end.