Under the canopy of leaves, under the thorny vines strangling the trees, under the bramble and brush and thicket and undergrowth, under the dried leaves, under the mushy compost, under the thick grey clay on the bank of the slow-moving creek with the slime-covered rocks, it is buried. It is buried, and it waits. It waits for its rising, and yes that day will come. The day of its rising was foretold. What has been foretold always comes to pass, that is why it is foretold—so that we may recognize the signs. It will rise and it will walk.
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