It was the Year of the Buzzard, and everything was dying not to die.
The last of the clinging leaves had fallen,
and the trees were stark with despair.
The sky could only croak at dawn.
Its throat was clogged, and its eyes itched
with the dusty and rusty particles
that rained across the horizon, and bloated the sun
into a stunted and gaseous orange.
It was the year the Red Sox lost the last Series
to a Club that wore Brown Boots.
It was the first year that the calendar began to run alphabetically.
The Months were dazed into a weak response,
which allowed every Monday a holiday.
It was the year the Badlands were born
and the good lands got rare as the rain, that seldom came,
and when it did, was bitter.
The ravens got bolder, and bread worth more than gold.
The crumbs cost too much to crawl for, and roaches ran the ruins,
where the ceilings were only rafters,
clumsily blanketed with torn plastic,
that from underneath look like holes in the sky
just large enough to wedge prayers, and dreams,
where they may be plucked by anyone who cared.
Only the coyote wears a face with eupeptic hope at dusk,
when the moon sleeps late, and the stars are cloud-covered.
Human fires are the only fulgent net of safety,
when the shadows beyond their influence
are solid predators who want what everything else wants,
and most of them willing to die to get it.
Clans evolved too late to save most things,
and time began to rust what it could reach.
Knowledge began to vanish into oblivion,
with every common death of an uncommon mind.
But the Prophets were doing well, at least on the spiritual scale,
and were selling everything at half-price, since the end was so near,
and they were pretty certain this time.
In 2000, Bray McDonald earned a B.S. in Environmental Issues from the University of South Alabama where he studied poetry under Sue Brannan Walker and Walt Darring. He retired as Senior Educator at the Tennessee Aquarium and now spends the majority of his time writing. He has been published in numerous journals in the U. S. and Europe. He has poetry forthcoming in Evening Street Review, Plainsongs, Steam Ticket, and New Reader Magazine. He can be reached at braymcdonald@hotmail.com.
Image: thelaurelmagazine.com
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Heavy Feather Review 