He hid the fire in a tall hollow stalk of fennel,
out of the sight of the great one who delights in thunder.
In those mountains he met others walking in the same direction. Backpacks, black plastic garbage bags, food sacks, a girl with two hard-boiled eggs, the shells flaking off. Some wore t-shirts from the sports teams of the West, and one man still carried an orange life jacket. The hunted, wayward god stood beside a mother who held her infant before her the same way he held the stalk that carried the embers he had stolen. He noted dry myrtle along the side of the road, and saw a ground that seemed soft enough for them to sleep on. There would be at least this much tonight, twigs for a fire, perhaps water for tea, some warmth in the morning.
from Said Not Said