Transfiguration

by Amy Nemecek

We followed him to the top of this great, high Mountain, grew heavy-eyed, footsore. I stuck one of those barking dogs into my open mouth before cloud-command shut it fast.

When our fathers approached your holy Mountain, brushing a blade of grass meant death. Now the Mountain clasps my shoulder, tousles John’s hair, slaps James on the back as we follow him down, still very much alive.