The prophet stared at the bird bones. They were a bit more charred than usual. He blinked. Crossed his eyes. Blinked again. The visions used to come unbidden, sometimes unwelcome, but lately they hadn’t been coming at all. He rubbed his right thumb knuckles with his left hand. Behind him, the elders inhaled sharply, then whispered among themselves. He quickly clasped his hands behind his back. He hadn’t meant to signal anything; his joints just ached. He tried squinting at the small blackened heap. One of the assembled men cleared his throat. “What do you see, wise one?” he inquired. The…