A second hill comes into view,
The Acropolis,
home of the gods
when they're in Thebes.
White stone shrines and temples
glow like orange hearthstones
in the dawn light.
But what does one say to a god
outside of their shrine?
What should I say to Hermes
as he runs at my side.
"So," I say.
Just so.
Hermes smiles.
"So," I say again,
and dig for more
in the rocky soil of my mind.
"So you are the patron of journeys."
"So,"
says the god of the winged helm.
"Just so.
And you are a child of prophecy."
I shrug,
as best as I'm able,
between running steps.
"I am,
if one can believe Apollon's fortune-teller."
Hermes smiles again.
His lips draw tight on one side.
That way he has.
I can say that now.
It's that way he has,
which I have now seen twice.
"But what use have I for prophecy, child?
I am master of the tossed knuckle-bones.
My gamblers see
all possibilities
while my brother's seers
are blind to all but one."
"Oh," I say.