Slipping (hour 9, 2017)


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.


Tests. Experiments.


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.


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