A smear of tinged pink cloud feathers the northernmost horizon as long, dew damp shadows attend my waiting. A passing jet spars with the new sun and blankets the curve of the earth with an effervescent roar, lifting the sky’s solemn cap, casting forth atoms of sound, rolling back the stone of our self like seeds birth silence from their tombs. Behold doubting Thomas: the resurrection of the son between every pause of our narrow speech.