4889. AND THEN HOW CAN IT BE?

AND THEN HOW CAN IT BE?

That I've had you held sacred, that I tripped the

wrong wire, that I've mired my soul in a tar-pot

of that wrenching wrong? I do not know, for the

last time I was at this impasse everything worked 

fine  -  the water of the lake was clear and blue,

and along the edges the marshgrasses grew. There

was no sound but the loving thud of bullfrog and shrew.

-

Now, the lake is lined deftly with plastic cabins and

new people have littered the stream  -  car parts, 

shopping carts and debris all their own. Even the

sacred sky is yellowish and, at night, so overlit.

I can flee to the mountains, but they too now

ate cluttered with fans and windmills and 

turbines. No bird flies at night.