This is a rewrite of an older poem
because I’m feeling the angst of a global meltdown…
The sky is parched, landscape scorched.
Brown and gray, last of all the ferocious colors,
hang in the air suspended on shimmering wire.
Coyotes lament through the night.
At daybreak life melts into
what remains of shadow.
Cool slips from memory.
Water falls into legend.
Green is consigned to myth.
Somewhere there will be a final breath.
The last exhalation will take with it
all memory, legend, myth.
The last of our kind will lie face down in an arid streambed
mouth filled with dust
an empty halo drifting above its ghost of a skull.
That night the coyotes will be silent.