As once again
a plague descends—
our punishment,
our reprieve—
we bang our kettles
in the evening breeze,
busy with fear,
deafened by loss.
Six feet apart.
Six feet under.
This is not a time for
nuance.

Sly earth, meanwhile,
has other plans.

Coyotes
stroll the freeway.
Geese cruise
the Strip,
confident goslings
trailing.

Fish stripe
Venice canals
while jellyfish,
impossibly,
balloon.

The sky unmasks,
fresh slate
chalked with clouds,
proud with hawks and
endless.

We are lost,
say the pundits.
We are dying,
say the papers.
But if every story has been told
then each can be retold,
tweaked, erased,
savaged or
soothed.

It’s only a draft,
rough and wrong,
I tell our children.
Tell it again,
this time truly.
This time let it
weep and breathe
and sing.
This time
be gracious.

Here is the only thing to know:
writing is rewriting,
humbling, solitary.
Stories are sighs
and pencil dust,
but they are supple, too,
and sometimes even
merciful.

Take the gift of these hard days,
seek our redemption,
retell the tale
like the bold coyotes,
the righteous geese,
the unruly sky,
staking claim to what was theirs
and what could be theirs
again.