A Continuation of sorts...

Maybe it was the cold quiet of the morning.  You know how it was in the past.  Coffee, sunrise, talk radio, and an interstate dipping and weaving through the corn fields and strange animals in their desperate search for oil, dipping their necks towards the earth in some faithful search for life.  You could walk to your car in the midst of leaves gasping under your feet before they were carried off to some tomorrow.  They carried whispers of a different world that was soon to come.  Their veins forming vermiculate patterns that could only be described as forgotten.  They were the lucky ones.  At least now it seems that way.

If they could, they would have written poems.  Dark and lonely poems that spoke out vehemently against the wind, and the lacerations of the cold.  Bitter poems that forewarned of the season to come.  They would have gathered to read them to each other and spit on the ground in disgust.  Wait for it to freeze.  They would have said this season will never end. And you will be cold.

Even if they could speak.  Would you have listened?  Would you have taken a step back and put your ear to the ground?  Just to hear the Earth tremble and shift one last time before going silent.

           

You do it now, now in the strange landscape stretched before your eyes. Those animals, now strange statues, long given up to the earth run dry.  Right ear pressed to the dirt, watching the sun in its interminable wasteland eclipse. Round the earth. Round the Earth, and it is only a dim shadow. All is only a dim shadow.

Silence.