( Wings Over Earth ) I have my own personal weather, the space between the clouds. Might my storm give back greedily as not to take that which isn't mine? The dead ancestors; the spirit of my kind, can no more their collective howling! I must return to my quiet seeking; my footprint small, my Love enormous! My finality has surged ahead of my living, holding my hand over the mouth of creation, the breath of spirit, more like death, less than Love. This is not new. This is not old. It is now! An inhalation beyond knowing, unknowable and laughing within the ventilator of my worship, inhaling fury with my grave and loveless cuff. My rage has settled its dust upon my spirit. Rage, which is nothing more, and nothing less, than the immense fear of that which I cannot know, of that which is not mine to bend or repeat. O! Let it come weeping with my disgrace. Bring my beast to its knees! Settle my redness with belief in Love upon the tongue of my seeking. Invoke what needs be spoken,
(The Weaver's Song)