When the world was created wasn't it like this?
A little flame illuminating a rough sea, a question
of attraction, something fermented, something
sweet?

And then a bird or two were added, the crow of
course to
joke about humanity, and then another kind so
beautiful
we had to hear them first, before our eyes could be
imagined.

And it was, we were then—and there was no
separation.
The cries of a planet formed our becoming.
We peered through the smoke as our shoulders,
lips,
emerged from new terrain.

The question mark of creation attracts more
questions
until the mind is a spiral of gods strung out way
over
our heads, traveling toward the invention of sky.

Move over and let us sleep until the dust settles,
until we can figure this thing out.

What was created next is open to speculation or
awe.
The...