This Hour

the rage is born in the east

roils across the atlantic

and like a jet engine
chock full of seagulls
the violence will only grow bloodier

in this, my finest hour
my northward gaze drifts
a wary eye to the storm

i smell the blood before i see it

the trees know, the hills too
and the fields rescind their dance
and play dead

i choose, here and now,
to not be engulfed
to just once, escape
the certain conflagration
that ignites the horizon
but i know better

so i turn to the peace of my hour
when the trees are yet alive
silhouetted against the flowered hills
and the fields full of life

the moon has gone
having done what it could
and the earth stutters in transition

i stutter too
in this last breath of peace
before the day catches fire