Switchblade

The cool touch of the night twists through the narrow gap of the window, ducking under the curtains like a creeping tendril searching for a tidbit to bring back to its owner.  I see it, of course, sitting still as could be on the bed, staring out at whatever it is I can't see but feeling it calling to me and not knowing whether I'm on the verge of seeking a new and important truth or just about to become somebody's next lunch.  The friend beside me smiles up, knowing no more than me but entirely unworried for my safety or his, because as far as he's concerned I can do no wrong, and I realize that underneath his furry features is hidden the very essence of friendship, and I finally understand what it is that keeps me on course on such a tumultuous river.  The steady hand on the paddle and the constant vigilance of the crow at the stern guarantee that I will not stray no matter how much I do, for the divisions and the flood-plains and the inlets all re-converge, carrying an uncertain me to the magical pond with that perfect log for sitting and watching owls.  And right there, right here, right now, in this exact moment I realize that the majesty of such a creature is far beyond my humble sins, but that I will spend my lifetime drowning any who have the arrogant audacity to so much as look where their eyes don't deserve to look.  I will be the guardian of my fellow sinners, and together we will cross streams with our eyes downcast, as much to hide them from the sun as to watch our footing.