Waking from sleep, I remember that something bad has happened, something that can't be undone.
I hit the trail in the wetlands with my dog.
The sun still shines. The birds still sing. The dark leaves of summer are still on the trees.
Soon, the funerals will begin.
A child-man with the bowl haircut of a toddler, has taken down the devout, who were praying in the Mother Church in the Holy City. It was not a toy gun, it was a birthday present.
There has been a heat wave. The water in the wetlands is low, full of minnows, the sky full of birds.
The fluffy white cottonwood seeds are falling on the shards of river birch bark on the floor of the trail. They drift floating down the creek into the dark wood.
"I heard the old old men say:
All that's beautiful drifts away
Like the waters."
W.B. Yeats
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