Hundreds of them.
Thousnds, maybe.
Perhaps even millions.
The eye cannot really tell.
The threads twist and twine in a riotous multitude of color.
There's no real meaning to them.
They just are.

So many comprehension is impossible.
Slowly, tenativly, the watcher reaches out, fingers brushing against the mass; clear tones ringing at the disturbance. One rings differently and the hand hesitates as the ear strains to catch the whisper sound. A decision is made and deft fingers catch hold the thread. Holding it gently, feeling its steady pulse. Carefully, the thread is pulled from the tangle-mass. It resists, and the throbbing pulse increases. But the fingers continue to pull. And so a single thread, deep blue in color, hangs free from the the others. Quickly, before it realize's it's alone, the thread is set against the great loom. And with consumate care, a new soul is woven into life's tapestry.
Somewhere, the cry of a newborn breaks through the stillness.

This text is copywrited by Brad Colver, 1997. It may be duplicated as long as the the copywrite stays with it.

Questions and comments are welcome and may be directed to bradac at alaska dot net