Dawn’s Hopeful Skeletons
The collapsing thunderstorm ended.
The dust storm began.
My southwest allegiance
Found me with handkerchief across my nose
As I crossed my small-town street,
Wind whipping my moo-moo about my legs
Like a self-flagellation penance.
My son carried his frosty bottle of Coke,
While my daughter held her Barbie ever so tight
The dolls hair whipped away moments before.
Like nomads of old,
We battled the swirling whorls of sand,
Desperately trying to keep the dust
From our eyes.
And…
Like so many days of the summer,
The wind decided to rest again
Allowing us to see the sparse vegetation
Spreading across a barren land
Surrounding our simple
But never calm
Town.
As always…
The hopeful skeletons
Of new and old structures
Re-opened their doors
For that anticipation of a few hours
Maybe even days
When the farmers could once again
Play checkers
In front of the old Sinclair gas station,
Grumble about the price of eggs,
And laugh at the cursed elderly stubbornness
That has kept them ornery,
But alive.
Climate change seems perpetual in some parts of America. Wind seems to use such places as a practice/rehearsal before moving on. (Painting by Dominic Piperata)
But I was reminded of the 1930s dust bowl which may be coming again when the central aquifer runs out of water irrigating much of the Midwest. Those very hard times leaving a bad taste in the minds of men who became older and ornery.
I certainly hope that my novel, The Last Wanderer, with its wildfires and economic and social collapse, doesn't come to pass. But the climate changing is very real and destroying the underpinnings of our very lives with those in power not seeming to notice. The millions of creatures under our feet in the soil that are going extinct while we try to eradicate weeds from our lawns and crops with chemicals.
I guess all we can say is, thanks for the memories, and let the children of today fight he greatest war of their lives.
Ron