I steal a glance past my shoulder,
but this time I see a man
with golden sandals that wrap his legs,
almost to his knees.
Tiny wings jut from his ankles.
Two additional wings
threaten to pull
the rounded bronze helm from his head.
The man's arms pump lazily at his sides.
as he runs,
with a cape that snaps in the wind.
The man's confident smile and ruddy skin
look human enough,
but I am not fooled.
I've seen that unbearded face
before . . .
. . . many times . . .
. . . carved into boundary markers . . .
. . . and on crossroad stones that bear his name
in the hope that he will guide lost travelers.
My clay jar shatters
against the hard-packed earth.
fly over the broken shards.