Tomorrow the sun burns the tiniest bit hotter.
The rain falls ever so slightly harder.
The wave washes an inch farther up the sand.
The child has a bit less to eat.
It’s slow motion game of chicken.
Except chicken is not quite the right word.
Because in chicken, someone blinks.
Only nature does not blink.
And game is also not the right word.
For games have winners and losers,
and there are no winners in this.
There is only the sun
and the rain,
the wave
and the hungry child,
and a tiny handful
who cry out like Cassandra,
into the unfeeling void,
their warnings echoing futilely
across the barren brown land.
October 5, 2019
Brian Kenneth Swain