What gifts we have. We can even see what is not but might be.
Hunters can see how the herd will go Where to hide spears and traps, When to show menace. Can talk and plan. Without leaving their clan shelter.
In our imagination, in our conscious dreams Anything can be. What power is that, To conjure a facsimile.
Events roll forward, this, then that follows A single sharp snag can unravel the fabric of our expectations A small snap can shatter the silence of sure calculations A whispered word and a woman dies A moment, a movement withheld and war cries.
The anguish of seeing How easily That single small whispered moment Had no need to be Calamity, Is tragedy.
