Womb. . .

is Jesus

and the Sun dance.

Steam rises

from Grandfather's skin,

stinking of sage

and tobacco.

A prayer

goes into the center,

and out to the Universe,

and is heard.

Days later,

two crows

breaking westward

along the Schuylkill,

before the closing of the flap

and the pressing of the skin

towards April's frigid grass

have not returned.

And we understand our places

in the Dance of Evolution,

when shadows take the walls;

and decades drown

in rivers of intent. . .