Sitting under Sala tree, or reciting psalms waiting for משיח (messiah), long shadow of broken tree holding broken man, narratives of presentiment fashion foreheads with mythic heuristic questions each must ask and learn for themselves.
We are perpetual vagabonds stepping through unanswerable questions and formulaic improbable answers about who we are, what has brought us here, and is there any help getting through this?
In Christian calendar begins Advent.
Something out there or in here is coming.
From where? Or for what? Or what’s the price of admission? We’re unsure, even now, even after thousands of years of inquiry, prostration, choral effort, sitting shiva, vacant tombs, charnel grounds.
During day sun occupies sole reference. It is at night billions of appearances flicker vast pinpricks of deep and distant stars in dark and desolate imaginings wondering, alternately: What is out there? What is in here?
Clicking second hand.
A man’s quiet voice, “Let me tell you what I heard.”
And another. And another.
Whispering their partial fragments, what they pass on into the hollow well of understanding, where dipping buckets bring up sparse and scarce dripping nourishment to slacken mouths.
The landscape is torn and prickly. No one deciphers what figures in the distance call out.
Is it declarative? Or plaintive plea?
Something, cracked voice says, is coming.
It is not believed, not a believable message, ever further incredulous ears used to dust and dry crackling comprehension passing through air, ear, airways.
What choice have we?
So, for another duration of resilient discordance, one sits, or stands, where one is — wondering, waiting, breath upon breath, for what is, angularly approaching.