The sky was weeping mercilessly
the evening we entered New Mexico.
Staring skyward, palms uplifted to the sonorous, wet falling,
I felt a slipping in my heart –
heavens unbalanced –
this desert – too green too green.
I saw the climate wandering, unhinged;
arroyos surging with mud.
I dreamt an explosion – saw the searing white blast,
withering of birds (mountain jays, golden eagles);
tasted the acrid stench of crisped juniper.
The next day an atomic physicist’s dream of death
shadowed our steps along Los Alamos’s Boyo trail –
steep-walled box canyon once witness to flash & blast –
small bombs testing nuclear containment –
while dead-end geology and weather drove us back –
thunderclouds surging overhead.
This is not a test texts read that night.
Flash floods, flash floods,
be prepared to evacuate.
This was not a riddle in so many syllables.
Imminent incident. Flash flood. Early September.