The Revelator’s Namesake

Revelations, three times repeated. It isn’t much, but here are the worldly things that I know best, in my foolishness:

A maple leaf will always turn, a woman from the country is always best, and a biscuit, made right, is a gift of God. Give me a slice of fat back every morning, a tiring ache for sleep at night, these are the things that keep me living. These things, even more so than the booze, even more so than any loving. I prefer a good rifle to a good church service, and a good dog over good weather, any day.

When I go to the mill every morning, to rip up creation with whirring teeth, sawdust in my mouth, beard, and blinding my eyes, these are the things I dwell on, watching the blade whine through timber, years separated in moments. These things and Revelations.

I hear that word in the clink of the chain, that will, no doubt, be the sound I will hear right before I pass. Revelations, three times, the moment of unveiling, the great day of reward, when all those who have helped to fill my pores with dust will find their mouths filled with wormwood, beds replaced with flames. The Reaping of Sevens.

But, until then, I will wait here, think of my country women, my hunting dogs, how my rifle weighs against my shoulder, while metal consumes concentric circles built eon upon eon, solid.