We thought this was an illuminated age.
But what light once reached us from heaven
has long been obscured
by abandoned prayers.
Always there was a warrior of the people
ready to stand against the sky. Now
twisters slither over the plains,
rip up earth. The debris spans miles.
Later, the prairie will wilt
under the wreckage but for now,
pigments crushed from objects of faith
trace shapes against the vaultó
gunpowder and wings, a veil of bullets,
the heavenly crown.