My God In A Windowpane

The rain is distorting the enclosure of the blue-grey world into circles of wideness. It is too dark to see, but not dark enough for lights, and so the small clouded world is giving me recognitions, erstwhiles, perhapses, to pass the time. There are no shadows, or it is all shadows. The sidewalk is a slate of water. The street is a river. Wrought iron gleams with black-wetness.

I find my God in a windowpane.

Rasheed is walking into Mecca and he can hardly breath. Dusky cheeks burned, eyes open wider than he knew they opened. The dust is a kiss, and he is part of something more beautiful than he dared dream, more beautiful than he knew he could endure. He is a simple soul, and he is coughing and breathing with beautiful things for his prophet. His imagination fails him, and he walks half-uncomphrehending through the swirl of sweating, glorying pilgrims. The dust is a kiss on his dark lips. There is intricate stone and waiting bodies and everyone feeding each other, feeding each other, calling out.

I find my God in a window.

The web is like grey death, decay. Head down hangs the spider, rocking with the wind, waiting for flying things to feed on. Wolfish litters of leftover pieces, but the frost is coming; the spider can feel death crawling up on it. Death has fangs like a black widow, many legs and many ways of approaching. Morning will see the spider withered into a curled-leg ball amid the ice-laced grass, and the web will break free into useless strands. In the next life, the spider will be a beautiful grey star-thing, stroking it's pointed legs against the sky. The spider will die and the spider will crawl away.

I find my God in a windowpane.