I myself do not believe in Him, no. And yet, whenever someone opens their mouth to let a beam of light shine out, and projects the God they have in mind against the sky, and grows intoxicated—I admit I get a little envious.
Then a large flock of ducks flies through God’s face—Ducks!—infinitely more variegated than He. Yes, a giant flock of them, just like that—quacking up a Second Coming— fleeing hunter and hound—out of the cattailed fen. Their wings beating over His eyes, their feathers falling out of His hair, they burst His features into a thousand iridescent birds!
And they fly—fly right through the razorwire of the sky.
They burst upon the dining room windows of family reunions. They fall onto suburban front lawns with a ka-put!—and float belly-up in the local reservoir. This one here, the loudest of them all—this one with his head held high—will be reborn through the propeller of a small plane—carrying a donor heart from Miami to Seattle—a boy aged three.
Sometimes, when I’m intoxicated, I too can see God in the sky—placing one bird above another—the cross in the eye of the hunter—the adrenaline after the smoke.
by Ryan Dowling