Already numb
to the media rush of floods
homes washed clean
like the hands of a priest
before sacramental wine
until all that is left
is god
standing like an echo
of our choices
There is no judgement—
we’ve slipped
like river ice too thin
to support the sparrow
we are heaved
old newspaper
in a whirl of wind
that sweeps empty streets
before the storm
catastrophe
the new normal
but it isn’t us this time
Not these hills
devoured by fire
here tree swallows dip
above the pond
sunset thrusts daggers of gold
through autumn leaves
even now
the taste of sugar flows
through the trees
Alfred Fournier