Forty decades in the desert and we were worn down, weary from our weakness, despairing of doubt, catching past only in fragments like morning manna: a whiff of Egypt's garlic, a vague floating thought of dangers lurking like crocodiles in the Nile.
Some fragments heavied us with the burdens of their memories: water bursting angrily from rock, rebellions and plagues, golden calves smelting in the sun.
Others lifted like leaven: the scent of lamb, blood like boon upon lintel, waters waving apart, a triumph of tambourines.
Others still flickered in their seeming impossibility, yet stuck as the bedrock above which all else was possible: defiant midwives, babies saved, and a young girl waiting silent in the bulrushes for an infant brother to be saved and to save, stubby fingers pointing as if to say,
Wait. You'll see. There's something even better, someone coming beyond Jordan. Forty years waiting. Yet we'll see.