Nov 20, 2019
Apocalypse A
All the birds stopped singing at half-past ten. Autumn flowers curl and shelter their petals, leaves twist and hide against wavering stems.
Debris rises; trash and decay, loose gravel and earth, leave the ground to meet the stars.
The green sun flashes a warning call to the gaping hole in the sky. I grip tight to an ash tree. Its roots loosen,
with house foundations and concrete chunks. Five past eleven, I lose my grip. Half past the hour, I freeze.