Pouring out the blood. The soil is saturated. Somewhere down the street the trees have pulled their roots, perforating the ground. People fleeing, carrying pails of water, blankets, nesting birds. The glaciers haven’t reached us yet. Someone said they’ve already melted and there is no more ice, no more snow, no more images of winter or spring. Pouring out the blood. The starlight and ragged moon beams. The ground is half-frozen; there are holes where the trees were. People fleeing, carrying children and birds, cats and bread. The road is scarred and stony. Tripping over and under and all along the edge of the road, flowers evaporate, bushes roll off. No one is speaking. Pouring out the blood. The soil is saturated, the sun rolling down the street, stopping where the trees had been, burning the remaining roots.
Andrea Moorhead
.