Dawn of Our Discontent

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 stark stubble
wondering where
life and beauty have gone.

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,
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 our discontent has arrived,
bearing down with the intensity
of a high mountain storm
scraping across an unimaginable tomorrow.