All around the city blackbirds fell;
fish washed about like litter in the streams.
That's what it took to make us stop,
look up and wonder
if this might be the end.
Is this how it begins? No searing
white light but a series of flutterings
that tickle and caress, comfort and
make us drowsy as they seek
a space to rest?
It wasn't 'til I came across the
vulture stretched across the north
fork trail, one wing pointing
northeast,its neck a crazed kind of ess
doubled back on itself.
And those pale sockets, looking back the
other way (as though he regretted,
after all,the choice he'd made).
His withered claw still pointed south,
insistent, and for the first time,
I wondered how long
do we have.
The clouds hung low
like dirty cotton in the sky
and the air tasted like metal.
I spat but the taste was a stain.
I ignored the nagging ache behind
my brow and squinted into
the glare. Is it too bright?
Or is it darker now
I listened for the wind in
the trees. A susurrus to save us.
If God's eye
is on the sparrow, then
where is his ear?
A thousand thousand
feathers fall like prayers
from the sky.