Predawn shadows hover over the deserted
field like an anxious executioner
not necessarily eager for the task at hand,
just ready to be done. Wind dances
along the stark stubble wondering where life and
beauty have fled. Broken stalks, like pipes in an organ,
create a crescendo response to Coyote’s mischievous serenade.
Inside men sit serious, eyes strained on their unspeakable future.
The silence doing more to debate the issue at hand
than any discussion to follow.
For a nation, for its people, for the serious men in silence,
the dawn of discontent has arrived.
Bearing down with the intensity of a high mountain storm
scraping across an unspeakable tomorrow.
