The Angler Chants

Upon a rock-strewn western strand
Storm-driven waves thunder in
Rhythmic crashing I count the series
Three small, one large, the twelfth the largest
The fog begins to form.

Far east a dark hatted wheelchair
Claims arcane control of the winds
Chimeric chants, undisclosed locations
Connect secret dots, read foreign entrails
The fog sweeps in.

Pour water down a chained man’s throat till death’s smell starts
Chant three times, talk in circles, claim circumspect
A mumbled rendition
The storm will soon abate
The fog thickens.

Farther east, storm tossed on a raging sea
A father’s son slept on a boat
Woken by fearful fishermen, spoke
“Be still” and laid back down
The seas calmed.

The wind shifts, the mists recede, the seas calm
The dark hat tosses bones, chants three times thrice again
The angler summons, opaque shadows coalesce
I count the receding waves
The clouds gather for the next storm.

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