Horeb

Air-pumping,

heart-pumping,

lung-sucking

adrenaline bolts

of fear

driving

him onward. . .

sprinting,

panting, 

exhausted terror

pushing

his feet

into

the wilds

to retreat

“If I do not make,

your life as one 

of them.”

the Queen’s

unminced threat

pulsed through

his mind 

into the bloodstream

of his quivering legs,

shaking the terror

down to his bones,

he collapsed under

the broom bush 

to die,

“I have had

enough

(enough anxiety,

enough famine,

enough peril,

enough hatred,

enough loneliness,

enough . . . )

Take my life,

I am no better

than my ancestors.”

And then his eyes closed

dancing nightmares

of treacherous evil.

“Wake up and eat,”

he felt a nudge,

groggy alarm

surged to his feet,

but the being 

stood unarmed,

smiling, gentle. . .

He looked around

bread over hot coals,

a jar of water,

then sweet sleep.

A second time,

“Wake up and eat,

the journey

is wearisome.”

He ate and

in the supernatural

strength

of that food,

he traveled,

40 days, 40 nights

to Horeb,

to meet God

at His mountain.

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