Scrying for Truth

Hot steam rises in a haze, above white bone china and the black liquid within. Darker than night, denser than diamond, it reflects the light. A perfect mirror to scry, to peer into the future, into faraway places, the might-have-beens, the could-bes. This is the moment to unleash my magic, to open my third eye, to face reality. Shapes are forming in the mist. Soon I will know everything. Instead I lift the cup and sip the bitter brew. It’s better to turn my sight inward, to dream of the possibilities that might yet be as I enjoy my coffee.