Again, the apocalypse,
or at least its clouds
arrived early, as they do,
in August.
The winds rush to gather
and gossip with smoke signals,
coating the pinetops like a dirty secret.
Nothing useful, like who fucked
up the campfire or whose corpse
is being smothered by 20-foot flames.
Probably more elegant, like
which patch of moss
is making her debut,
which bird decided that motherhood
is not all it’s cracked up to be,
how many shinies the ravens
have collected in secret
like the conspiracists they are.
Melcontents 