This is their down time, time to browse among the olive branches, Christ with them, their apostolic flight slowed at last to a head-nodding drowse,
to a flutter of tattered cloak, the unraveling hem dragging in the dirt like a hurt wing. They flock momentarily around him,
then settle down, safe in the soft swing of wind that rises and then falls back with the deepening evening
into the distance, and sleep, while Christ's black feathers burn in his father's fist, plucked by God before by Judas kissed.