Photo by San Diego Shooter
Prayer #106: Tunnel Vision
The last drop of blue water, sluggish and clingy, drips from the pipe overhead onto my dusty boot.
All around me is black, save for the gray curtain shimmering at the distant perspective point I'd pick if I were back in drawing class.
My footsteps chatter and echo. They supplant my voice, too caked to croak a syllable.
Soon, though, I can't hear even my own footfalls, because the curtain is roaring. The closer I get, the louder it pounds, pushing the black behind me.
My toe slips, splashes. The perspective point is now immediate. I reach to push the curtain aside -- and instead go through it.
I grab my arm back, aghast. My sleeve patterns the dirt beneath me with droplets.
Water, falling. No curtain there at all, except that of my perception. I flood with recognition.
Dry earth can still absorb a gift. So I raise my cupped hands to You, and drink.