Witness

Ron Koppelberger

Witness

Begat by the pursuit of distant vistas, the distressed ruffle of the witness flittered in disturbing breaths of abandon. Balanced in revelation the aged monk watched as the figure of a man in worship endeavored to resurrect the lifeless native. An animal of some indistinct origin grumbled and fussed in the ragweed bloom next to the monk. Paying attention, caution, reasonable suspicions of amazement resolved to enthrall the aged priest with the prospect of destiny, a coveted payment for the promise of new life.
Divisions of light and sound surrounded the native in a brilliant corona as his lifeless body levitated away from the dense underbrush and thorny briar scrub. He watched from secret hidden sylvan vantage, his jungle perch, his eyes glued to the taboo of ethereal mists and jungle dreams. Was this the eleventh hour he wondered as a rolling cascade of scarlet drizzled from the underside of the floating man.
Eclipsed in perfect symphony, by the sunbeams and lattice of lush vegetation, by the realms of revival unto the sustenance of existence, in denial of death and the darkness contained therein, the native yawned and levitated to a standing position next to the praying man. The monk struggled with an understanding, the substance of life, chaste witness in moments of clumsy, fumbling birth. He had witnessed a miracle and the rest of the world had gone on to another Sunday and another twilight before the darkness.