Thursday, August 28, 2008

For Quinn

Angels sing and dance amongst us as children sit at a counter and ask for a soda, as a woman riding on a bus and does not get out of her seat, as a father wakes up from his mid afternoon nap to have dinner and go to his second job. Angel's trumpets blare as tens of thousands of marchers quiet for a moment to listen to a man with a dream. Angels hover humming over a jail cell that holds the man who will leave the jail a leader and will take his people in one direction before he travels to mecca and changes course which will cause eventually his assassin to load his gun and take aim, while his own children watch. Angels hum, whirl, twirl, dance. Sing lullabies and laments year in and year out as babies are born, grow up, grow old and die. Tonight Amerca's native son walks out on blue and even the angels skirts still as they turn to watch and listen to a dream unfurled.

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