I see the Oracle. It floats above me, hums, takes up the sky. Dark and dark-blue. I’m scared of it.

I look down. Here, there are plants, trees, green. It still hums above me. But here, I’m undistracted. I smell the flowers so sweet.

I go home. It hums. Within the walls, it hums louder. I need to think, and it hums. Rattling, it rattles me. I begin to shrink. I fail to even lift a hand.

I need a reminder, to be sunk to Earth once again. I find some lines and words on plain white pages. There;—there. From lines and frail fabric the Oracle is made. I can handle that. I can weave lines and frail fabric.

I stand. Does it hum? I begin to weave. Content, it’s complete. Let it settle and be.

The Oracle. It hums.

19.XI.24