It might happen, you never know,
a heavy snowfall in high summer,
white flakes like the purified ashes
of the dead; from heaven.
Why not? Like knots of wood,
secular souls sit locked in self.
Too empirical to be empirical,
they really think the Earth is spherical,
and not six dimensional,
as our feathered priests know it to be:
intelligence borne from chants,
and a condor’s airy felicity—
and other elusive signs
and wonders that slip quietly by:
like secret animals, like pookas
that resemble chinchillas.