It’s just gotten dark, and I’m standing at the base of the new lighted cross that hovers above Zanesville beside the interstate. It must be sixty feet up there, at the top of a steel tower, and it’s huge in white lights. I feel depressed; but Jesus dances in a birthday mood, joking with Ferlinghetti about climbing back up onto that one. There’s a steady stream of cars and trucks roaring by, transporting catholics, presbyterians, atheists, agnostics, hindus, vacationers, hippies, buddhists, taoists, haulers, joy riders, jews, greeks, baptists, brokers, go-for-brokers, soldiers, scribes, pharisees, philistines, survivors, witnesses, judges, muslims, inventors, adventists, adventurers, deliverers, computors, shoppers, methodists, astronomers, teachers, coffee drinkers, logicians, losers, snorters, mainliners, operators, plumbers, boxers, butchers, you name it. Siva stands there with his hands in his pockets, looking whimsical. But I’m scared there’s a cave nearby that can swallow us all.

Tom Koontz
The Flying Island 1999