Lost Creek Hollow the prayer of the apostle paul

the great river had led him here and his eyes sharpen with comprehension, the rest of his features falling into feral relief. this ground was blessed! he kisses the soil and the snowmelt beads on his whiskers like a string of crystals.

piriawis! life-giver, i hear you!

he dances then, paws marking a tight figure-eight in the slush, leaping into the air every so often. his movement recalls a school of fish coalescing, contracting, then fleeing as one, something mindless and automatic. something so unusual it could only have been dredged from base instinct, or instilled by a higher logos. there is no mundane in-between to the canaanite and the prayer that moves him.

the rhythm stutters to a stop. he is flushed with exertion. he tips his head back and calls out, breathless, for the denizens of this sacred city.