Yellow bus comes to a stop.

Trees plowed down all around.

Disembarking— mountain top.

Lighting strikes— no sound!

 

Frozen Spider webbing sky.

From these cracks leap steed.

White angels riding from on high.

To the earth, they lead.

 

“What am I to do?” I think.

I hear a voice reply.

Stang directions from the brink.

“Newborn’s coast— go nigh.”

“Newborn?” questions I.