They gather—
like the sound of laughter at a party
or black-cloaked mourners at a graveside
or storm clouds thundering in.
They move—
like an eagle mounting the wind,
or a turtle shrinking back into his shell,
or a hiker lost in the wilderness.
They read the signs—
like a fortune teller
or a political analyst
or a hospice nurse.
They speak—
authoritatively—like a man with a PhD,
persuasively—like a woman with an object,
and commandingly—like a General to his army.
And they have never done a thing—
never crafted a universe,
or sprinkled galaxies with stars,
or filled the earth with creatures;
never molded history like clay,
or wiped out armies with one stroke
or laid the future out like a map;
never mended dying bodies,
or hushed a storm at sea,
or called new life from the tombs;
never stood firm beneath my feet
or painted the sky overhead
or loved me—
the world turns on the word of God alone.