Newspapers in the Stream

I woke up this morning
and the trees didn’t know who won the election.
The squirrels were hanging upside down
on the outer tips of the trees,
feeding on twigs and leaves
and an early autumn release of seeds.
I asked the grey one,
“Do tell, who won?”
and she said,
“Watch the bees. They will tell you
over the next four years. Do they flourish or die?”
The day I read the papers
I wept and wanted to die,
in the infinitesimal hope
my death could save a bee or two.
Everything has consciousness,
from the sun we worship
to this great river
and the stars.
I have communicated with each of them.
Sufi dancing home
under Van Gogh’s starry night,
I have felt the moon’s reflection
on the surface of the placid river;
could taste it with my fingertips,

and smell it with my hair and skin,
my eyes soothed by that Lady of Darkness.
She lives between water and sky.
She and I often cry together,
hoping the sand and bullrushes
are enough to clean the stream
once we humans are extinct.

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