Quiet, watching, underground. The season is as the dead. Too late to change what was, too early to say what will be. A reasonable drive toward madness, or something else.
Inalterable change, greater than the days of the calendar, is underway. On foot to a new land, or just surviving until tomorrow, the present is breaking its bargain with the future. Can you feel it?
Melting ice a world away creates rivers to the sea. Movement, ceaseless movement, away from stability, toward fluid, restless change. Electric impulse, blinking eye, tipping point. Here.
Ripping panic, any country, the crowd turns. Some trampled, some survive. Machines rain from the sky.
Brutality, frail flesh falls, bones bleach.
Raise your hand. Strike, defend, or answer.
Spin the protest, business as usual.
The sun pales to the onslaught, a spider navigates a windowpane. Look away. Evade the futility of Now.
November butterfly flits toward twilight. Or something else.
Shouldn't...but Do 
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