Journey of the Magi
The rationale behind the trip was flawed.
We were such misfits, we could barely speak
to one another. We chewed on sand. And God
had not come through the radio in weeks.
Our atlas claimed that past the shimmering spine
of the horizon, where the weeping sun
shied from the rock's embrace, we'd find a sign
indicating shade and water. But there was none,
only a bird. A bird could mean anything.
That night I was the first to see the wolves,
or wolf-like creatures: furtive dark machines
with too many limbs and eyes. There was our proof:
the world was changing. We must change, or die.
And then the screaming star consumed the sky.