Lumen Field, Seattle

The game is over.

A cauldron of thunder.

The cathedral of football

empties streams of human

and hawk DNA

into 1st Avenue.

The city becomes a Medieval village.

Feral maenads garbed

as osprey and orca shamans

spill into pubs and coffee shops,

hover over succulent

caramelized onions and hotdogs

charring on misty sidewalk barbecues.

Yes, we won.

But who are "we"?

I, thou, nobody else.

This is the 49th day of the 49th year

of the 49th aeon after creation.

Jubilee!

No more war in the streets, only dancing.

Hug a perfect stranger,

hug an imperfect friend,

hug yourself.

Hug the clustered stars, the

late-arriving comets,

the seven sister Pleiades,

Alcyone, Asterope, Electra, Maia,

Merope, Taygeta, Celaeno,

ladies of the night.

Let the left palm of God and the

right palm of Satan press

in a spire at your forehead,

praying hands of hope.

We no longer rage about our differences

but celebrate what we share.

Our magic turns the city

into a village.

Yes, we won.

Do not speak about the "collective"

if you fester with blame,

but embrace the wound in your heart

as your very nature.

It will never heal.

Yet this embrace is the healing

and this wound is the fountain of beauty.

Nothing is more whole than what Is.

Go out into the darkness now.

Expect no dawn.

And you will receive from the womb of night

a gift of fire.