In the bleak midwinter on a brackish morning, while the vultures watched their breath freeze above the drowsing marsh, salvation arrived. People carried on with their weddings and wars. Nutritous flora was farmed, and water ran forever into herself. But the world had changed, and in the silent bogs of what will one day be Indiana, the stones cried out in praise of who was, and is, and is to come.
Miniature Moon 