Nathaniel

It would take twenty years for the sun to rise again. If he’d known, he wouldn’t have gone to sleep that night, stone for a pillow, penny for his dreams, a trip-hop-skip-jump into exile. Second-born son, wrestled with angels and lied straight-square-face to the wolves themselves. Threw the stew of his father’s father farther, ran away to Wichita, stole a kite up to the heighest height. Twenty years till the sun rose again my friend, running dark in the blind, swimming a black sea, jellyfish twists. When he came to shore, Nathaniel was sitting under the fig tree and looking at a pinkening picnic sky.