“In my beginning is my end.” -T.S. Eliot
I drive 65 by a dead raccoon, a telegraph pole with weeping wires, a tumbleweed that needs to be freed, still bound to the dust.
Everything’s dying, even the golden wheat, even the fluttered foxtails. The old barn is caving in. God bless America.
The countryside testifies, telling truth in the tumbled down things.
I live in a city that’s surrounded by country. I sit all day in the air conditioning, always choosing. Food, clothing, fingernail polish. I have it covered, I have it all.
In my house I control the weather. I never let it rain, discomfort is the devil. I keep my peas frozen at zero degrees. The city’s gone crazy, my zip code has many gods and few of them recycle.
I watch the sheep in the pasture.
The telegraphs are gone now, the pride of man circa 1910 is tipping over towards the grass. No one is asking “What hath God wrought” but I remember my mortality. I smile and I turn up the radio. Someone else is on the throne, and He likes sheep.
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