No fox in the hole. Ecological hunting
has trimmed the fur from this vale.
Vague bones kicked up by marchers
are collected by the children as toys.
Manufactured sound has disappeared.
Question marks of smoke
punctuate the sullen distance.
Food is whatever is in the mouth.
The hard times forecast rumble
in the belly of a beast unleashed
by dire misunderstanding.
Somewhere there is an oasis
of healing and imagination.
But right now it’s just carcasses and sand.