The world isn’t ending (at least not today)

i wake to the meadows all frosted where white-crowned sparrows sing and horses

graze out at pastures golden-lit in front of snow-tipped mountains and the air smells

like grass and cattle shit and the small ditch of water still runs through the cattail and

the red tailed hawk circles like a red flame and it must be that the world is not in fact

ending (at least not today)

and later i walk down the streets of this small town past the elementary school

where a teacher in the recess yard attempts control and gives up and the children

sense this small victory and erupt into full blown screams and pulled hair

and legs moving every which way—and the teacher throws back her head and laughs

as if it was always meant to go this way and i think the world must not be ending

(at least not today)

and in the afternoon i call my mother as i cook sausages on the stove and we talk

about small things that make us laugh and large things that make us sad and she

helps me decide what sort of rug to get for my room and tells me it’s not all that bad

when i tell her everything just feels wrong and it isn’t a dismissal but a refusal to let me

think the world is ending (at least not today)

and later that evening i watch election results filter in and the country lights up

a pale red, then burgundy, then bright crayon sunset and i decide to play music

and sing as loud as i can about nothing and i think about how tomorrow i’ll wake up

to that frosty meadow where the white-crowned sparrows will still sing and the horses

will graze all golden-lit in front of snow-tipped mountains and i’ll walk down

our small main street where red signs stand side by side with blue ones in front of

the elementary school where kids will assuredly still be screaming utter delight

and if the world is really ending if a wildfire rages through or a landslide knocks

the side of this mountain down or all our healthcare is stripped away or someone

comes and shoots up that perfect school or any one of the horrible things that happen

every day in this country suddenly happens to us it’ll just be us in this small town

left with each other handing out food and water asking where’s so and so

and what do you need and bring over the children and the world really could end

any minute it really could it’s happened before it’ll happen again there have been worse

times and there will be worse times and tomorrow at least tomorrow my mother

might call to say the appointment went fine and maybe my neighbor will smile and wave

as i walk past and maybe the teacher in the recess yard will still find joy in the chaos

and the sparrows i’m sure will still sing up the sun rising over the horses put out

in the meadow to graze as the snow falls thick over all of us