Driving back
I’m behind a flatbed
towing two snowmobiles
whose flapping dark cloth
fills me with delight –
I saw they’d become robes
of the Brothers
whose voices were like wind chimes,
who spoke gospel words
as if they belonged in this world,
not some other.

There they were,
perched on the back
of a flatbed, crouched,
riding into the wind,
pointed to a destination,
though in fact
they were being carried.

Voices Like Windchimes