Confessions of a disbeliever

When you walk alone wind tries to tell you something: whispers grass makes, the semaphore of leaves. In the dust dark grains rearrange themselves in patterns you could read if someone helped you solve the code. Lines move across the field - wheat wise enough to survive pharoah's tomb. Or across coyote's fur where she sleeps and waits for the moon when she can join her friends to sing all the world's secrets just beyond the edge of town.