We live with acts of God. But God isn’t in it like us. Not in any way. He’s the one who owns the land allotments, the words. He sends the little people* to mess up our lives.
What do we know? Born into this world. Driven up the hill to school. Licked like postage stamps.
If we look at the blue sky’s curtain hiding us from the hunting grounds, we can’t know it yet or who would be left to stay?
Sometimes I think I should still be writing him.
Now I have to get up in the night and go into the little rollaway on the back porch. Even in winter, I sleep there. Once he woke almost glowing. The field he said the field. Helicopters flying and men screaming. The guns. Viet Cong running over them, men gurgling in their own blood, arms and hands and legs shot off not yet dead and he saw by god the acts of God. He saw the angels sweating. They wore headbands and guns on their backs between their wings. They rode horses with braided tails and war masks.† They lifted the dying onto their horses and rode off. Up past old cattle trails, the buffalo herds stampeding like comets.
When you’re so far away you don’t know what’s going on anymore. That’s the way I like it. It’s why I stay here. The only other place I’d like to go is space. Up there in the hereafter. I don’t think much of the little blue speck down there in the bottom of the well like a stone. Turning in the waters as if it were something.
* The Cherokee “Little People” (or Yunwi Tsundi) are very small (about knee-high) spiritual beings, similar to European fairies, but with long hair reaching to the ground. They live in caves or woods and spend a great deal of time making music (drumming) and dancing. They are usually good-hearted and helpful. They are invisible to humans unless they choose to be seen.
† In the old days, warriors braided their horses’ tails to indicate that they were riding into battle.