Loaves
Of dry bread
Rest on my
Dusty windowsill

Someone
Just said my name

I didn't answer them.

I'm worried about dust
Getting in the cracks and
Holes of the dry bread
On my windowsill.

Something tells it's going to happen.

Much like
Everything else
That's been going on
Lately.

What is that something?
Who is it?
Are we all just seers
Locked in our own perspectives?
Like horses with
Blinders on?

I think about money
I think about gold
I think about a white picket fence
Surrounding a manicured yard
With one of those silly garden gnome
And a flamingo with a Santa Clause hat on it

(It is Christmas time)

And then I think about a field
And I see a wolves den
And a birds nest
And a beavers dam
And a gopher hole

I see the roots of a redwood
Planted by the hands of the Gods,
Staking their land with their
Winding tentacles.

We've always done this.
Before we were even able
To call ourselves a "we"

Separation and conflict
As a species
Has always been so.

There is a truth, but
What we lack that the animals have not
Is respect.

They eat their neighbors
And the neighbor know
That this must be so.

What they take comfort in
Is they know the sun will rise
Again for them in the morning.

They do not think they deserve it,
For they fight to survive every day,
Losing brothers and sisters,
Siblings and spouses;

The loss is their payment for the light of the moon and the sun.

They earn it.

The dry bread on my windowsill has molded.
The once gray dust has turned green.
I waited for a bad thing to get better.
I waited for a bad thing to do the right thing.

I'll have to toss it
And bake
Another loaf.