Dappled light, and trout.
Ants spilling sand onto brick.
Thick trees.
Cars throbbing
with
bass frequencies.
Where are they?
I am searching for them.
Dogs.
I'm above the sea,
sitting on a stone bench.
Masks on the ground.
I wear mine outdoors.
Sickness is again spreading.
I find dead birds,
kill carpenter bees.
Children die,
buildings collapse,
villages wash away.
None of these are signs.
Not one, none.
Planes
plow rows of sound,
like birds in bushes,
and as hidden.
No dogs.
Cicadas have brought heat,
and with heat,
aspects of elevation.
Still no dogs.
Dog days have passed.
We remain high,
dragonflies
darning through
cool cloudless blue.
Up here,
in the returning chill,
evening caws.
But no dogs.
Where the dogs are
I think of as lapses in consciousness,
warnings -
the world's next sedition.
Listen.
A bark?
Long shadows now.
Colder.
Dark.
Just out of eyesight,
legged shades,
dissembling,
move closer.
