The old land, rich with loam and memories, full nights under the moon.
The shading trees bending to the will of the day in fulfillment of the deal.
The calf figuring out the direction dictated by years of habit and will.
Was this paradise or some ethereal landscape of humorous beauty?

The new land is a marvel of ingenuity borne of boredom and greed.
Ease of delivery in so many unanticipated ways that confuse the spirit.
Time. Time. Time. To devise more ways to have more time, time, time.
Time to gut the land, trees, and animals. We have so much time now.

We have so little time now. We play the fiddle and obfuscate. The
Monstrous new land is our new history: the future foretold by the
Look in the hungry wolf’s eyes, the decimated forest, and the rising sea.

The joke of infinity, the curse of fatalism, the big yawn signaling no matter.
Another use for those blinders. Starvation, pestilence, brutality only rumored.
A cosmic joke from the Comedian. A reversal of fortune that was written on
The old land, the trees, and the calf in a language unknown and ignored.

She arrived in sunshine, ready to pounce. She flew through the air to anoint her prey.
Her eyes, lined with kohl, told us everything about life. Warm, happy, always on the qui vive.
Attention must be paid, lest you miss the signs. Patches of sunlight, children to protect, and
The everlasting quest for the next journey and the meal that inevitably follows.

But the universe is cruel, cold-hearted matter. It cares nothing about pads on paws
Or ears that go in all directions, or the velvet belly that demands to be nurtured with love.
The signs you want to ignore, the closing in all around you, the doctor’s pinched face.
It will be over soon; it always is. The last kiss will be sweet and to the point. No averted eyes.

Rest in peace, sweet pea.

The morning sun seems awkwardly shaded, the air densely packed with forged iron.
Where are the blooms that looked upward just yesterday? Who are these faceless people?
There are no warnings; there were warnings. The screen is fuzzy with static, silently loud.

Did we give our permission? I can’t remember before. Was I complicit? Did the trigger get stuck?
Can you grab the future and still it? It is too late, said the wolf with barred teeth. It is too late.
I just want to close my eyes to what I can’t imagine. The bloodstained proof of a dying union.

It will be noted by dead historians that one day we tacitly gave up what was so dear to us.
We can only mindlessly aggrieve while masking the horror with the quotidian that soothes.
This grand experiment was but a dream. The nightmare is forever. Let’s slumber together.