How the skies finally moved…
We can only hope right now.
Shifting through these longing days
Where grace is faint.
Found in the work of sand and water.
Where wind once came,
And still visits,
A story remains.
Tell me now,
Fingers tracing this light,
Long across time soon flowing
Once again.
Smooth,
Still,
Under a ceaseless blue morning.
Tell me now.
— Sam A. Flanagan
This article appears in Reports from the Grand Jury.
