Thrasher's Call

The maps fill in with combat tones, their seepage bringing dread to bones, as frothing news drains into homes across the terror-formed horizon.

And as the night begins to scrape from east to west, its pall now draped across the pallid-fear landscape, shadows grow on night’s horizon.

This trick of light – or dark, perhaps – that sculpts the hills and homes, like scraps of steel and glass, to brutal traps and twists a mean horizon,

is only that – a trick, performed by eyes that, being terror-formed unsee the landscape’s terra formed by the Light, who shapes horizons.

So, vespers, compline, any prayer I’d lift, in hopes of earth’s repair to the Maker of the hills and air: send us peace with Your sun’s rising.