The sun was setting, redder than a peach, leaving red streaks so languid & sinewy across the sky. Night was coming.
Emerging from his cabin as if drawn by mating calls of wolves, sex dreams, or fairies, he followed the path from his porch to his corn field. Already chords of Oberon & hauntings rolled deep in his mind, chords like roots that take nutrients from Earth & a thousand suns again.
Deeper than these chords was the corn field, & he followed it to its heart. Here he met the other pieces of his soul, Human-things that were so alike in their diversity. He greeted them, & his gratitude stretched for miles.
They began to sing.
Cicadas joined in bravely & sweetly, adding the most pleasing, infinite drone to their hymns.
The Human-things began to hit the pots & pans they had brought with wooden spoons in rhythms more bloody and innate than heartbeats. This song was hope, and it filled them until they fell to the ground, exhausted and squirming with the deepest love for one another and everything.