It’s the sort of thing the eyes don’t see unless they’re told to. The subtle turn of the seasons pressed against the left coast lean. Brown hills stippled with scrub oak and kindling, the fires longing to see the ocean rolling down from the mountains. This long dry stretch awaiting the rains of winter, thirsty peaks bereft of snow, the Pacific busy learning new tricks. The clinging sea and the calamity line.
The rasping cough and the starry eyes. This shambles of loose portents. This prophecy of bird and bone. The witnesses testify and the words run wild. Myths and nihilistic appetites. The tyranny of the curve.
You watch the numbers adding up. You sound the call to arms. The world reduced to swamp and ashes. The faith in the falsifiable failing while they carefully weigh the liar’s part. All this talk of heaven as smoke reclaims the stars.
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