Ethereal Demography of the Superstitious Atheist

Last night the high stars,
predictably mute,
decorated life
above the dark side
of a small planet.

Today the weather
turned wet and windy,
soaking the desert,
churning ochre flows,
running red rivers

of undignified,
impassable mud
and dangerous rocks
that yesterday were
sides of sunny hills.

The dull human mind
starts habitual
evaluation
of what this change means:
Good day for a storm,

a good day for me;
I don't have to drive;
it could have been worse,
could have come later,
made problems for me.

The furies themselves
may have arranged it;
Some Others may care
what happens to me,
mine, and my schedule.

What are these structures
in our little minds
that crave characters
with invisible
desires on our fates?

We people the world,
and then populate
each interior
with exterior
agents of meaning.

For every billion
individuals,
a hundred billion
supernatural
forces activate.

The superstitious
atheist, even,
feels tugged by meaning,
purpose, control, feels
haunted by patterns,

counts random angels
constellating from
minuscule details,
appalling designs,
winged with intentions.