by Mike Allen
The column of the golem's neck interrupts the cloud cover, its shoulders mountain high, its face forever unseen, the tower of its body shading our valley as far back as our books remember. Beneath its feet we burrow to mine iron ore and silver, marvel at the whorls of its soles. We pray our generation will never see it move, all our dreams buried beneath that calamitous first step.
October 31st, 2015