What are we by nature?
Mountains, stars, hands—nothing but the little strings that hold it all together.
What does it mean to be created in the image of God?
Magpie nests of cheap sparkling spangles, sequins, paste, lamé, rhinestones, glass marbles glinting in scintillating light.
Why then do we live apart from God and out of harmony with creation?
We are a man waiting to be shot standing on the edge of a shallow grave, removing his shoes, arranging them toe-to-toe, rolling his socks neatly and tucking them inside.
Why do we not use our freedom as we should?
We are barred owls, fluffy and innocent in the daytime, like stuffed toys drowsing, but at night silent terrors, killing whatever small and twittering creatures we can find.
What help is there for us?
Little brown birds guarding their nests in the undergrowth. Cows scratching on a rock at dawn.
How did God first help us?
By propellers, fore and aft, and an inclined plane shuttled to and fro by the centrifugal force of a doodad.
(The last response, concerning propellers–which should have the accent on the first syllable–is a little riff my Irish grandfather used to say when asked by one of his children, “What does it do, Dad?”)