These are the days the prophets warned of: fire, famine, flood.
Fear posted like a blood-sign over every door. Our first-born
swallows back her questions, afraid the wolves will answer.
Most of us were born in simpler times, except the very young,
who pull away from the breast, cry out from their cribs
as the sky bears down, waiting for the wolves to answer.
Our eyes narrow in the marketplace, at the synagogue.
Every sheep could be a predator disguised. We pray to a god
who has forgotten our names. We fear the wolves will answer.
No one knows when we were lost. Once-dense forests
barely a thicket now, animals driven out. Hills echo
with screams of our machines, but the wolves decline to answer.
This may be the apocalypse, or not. The Milky Way is only
a resting place. One day we will shed our filthy clothes and weep
for every leaf and cub destroyed. Maybe then, the wolves will answer.
.
Al Fournier
Picture Dave Cooper
.