Dear Lord or Lady of Creation:
We small-ish creatures down here are grateful for all your gifts and I should be remiss indeed if I forgot to mention the hornets. They are lovely. Their wings are delicate as hand blown glass, and they sparkle like motile slivers from a rainbow as they flit with dark purpose around the woodpile. How delicate they are! Their waists are thin as the illuminated periods in hand painted bibles. Oh, and their abdomens swell with mystery and all that hot music of private algebra. And I haven’t even begun to marvel at their angled eyes that can discern soft innocence from a distance of a thousand yards.
Yes, they are perfect engines of suspicion without consciousness, these furious and intractable little bastards. How adoringly we embrace them with our soft and child like appendages, our little bums and piggly toes, each one of us insolvent in the richness of faith. Dear Creator, thank you.
Oh and we are also grateful for anaphylactic shock, and swollen tongues.
Thank you.
We are beseechingly yours in this world of raw and unexpected alarms. Forgive us our ungovernable innocence. How foolish we were to conceive of playgrounds and swingsets. How errant our ways in your garden where the lesson is clear: stay inside. Don’t move. Bow and pray behind curtained windows. Repeat as needed.
Faithfully yours,
Homo Erectus
Planet of the Blind 