God’s been drinking again. He’s jotting down his secrets, tossing his bottles onto the water. One contained the best sushi recipe of all time. Another, all the answers that will ever need to be questioned on Jeopardy! That last one contained the Toa Te Ching tightly spiraled on rice paper. God laughs to himself. He is such a clever God. He lobs one, far out, containing hydrogen, helium, and a smidgen of lithium for balance. The angels think about intervening, but everyone’s good for a fireworks display. Something more explosive, at least, than the nights God sits around knitting. They watch the lights whirl like dervishes, except that no one knows what a dervish is. But the angels think it all the same, how poetic all these babbling whirlpools of glimmering thread would be, if they all fell down and began chanting, or maybe humming in the same distinct key signature. In the clamor no one notices the bottle that just drifted by wearing last year’s hottest trend, a little number accessorized with scales and gills. There is a crack in the glass and it’s taking on water fast. No telling how long before it sinks. A little farther out two bottles drift aimlessly together, clinking in uncertain rhythm. One holds the fleshy folds of a lover’s heart and is trying desperately to keep the beat. In the other, scripture sleeps soundly, scrolled up alongside philosophy. The bottles ride the current far out to sea. God grows tired of drinking. He sits back in his rocking chair and resumes his knitting. But the angels keep their eyes on the bottles as they drift. One has feet, the other lungs. They just might make it to shore.