A thin line of cherubs haloed Mount Wheeler.
I spied them from William’s Lake.
I was there to be by myself to meditate.
Forty people picnicked.
At first I thought the cherubs a smoke ring
blown by a humorous god.
When the cherubs passed over
remaining patches of snow, I recognized them.
A bearded prophet abandoned his mountain cave.
He walked past the picnickers.
He snatched a chicken leg
and an unattended can of Coke.
As he passed I heard him mutter repeatedly
Fucking little harp playing shits.
copyright © 2023 Kenneth P. Gurney