The little creek behind the house is almost dry this morning.

I don’t remember it being so these past two summers. I worry.

The creek is dry and sounds from the farm that was behind us

are sounds of heavy equipment, not the sounds of tractors, threshers, or such.

In my mind these are sounds of Death.

Death to trees and all who dwell within and around,

Death to rivers, streams, and creeks. 

I’ll listen tonight for tree frogs and hope that their din is undiminished

That no more housing’s being built for what seems mostly to be the worst of New York, New Jersey, Connecticut, Pennsylvania, Ohio…

We have good neighbors, but so many are the ones we hoped to leave behind,

reincarnations of the Confederacy: racist, sexist, and cannot cook.

They join the “Redneck Brigades” of the Carolinas, but reshape it into their controlling and manicured images.

They hate the Spanish moss that hangs from live oaks, bring plants foreign to this soil, then rant about increasing pollen. 

Prefer the foods from supermarkets or artisan shops created by trust fund babies to our local Mom and Pop fish markets, BBQ, chicken shacks, and joints, and they denigrate the very cultures whose charms attracted them here to start with.

I see this across the country, but mostly in the South, where so few people have power to fight the Powers that conspire to let this happen. They take the kickbacks, retire where they can live like kings, expanding the cycle further and far, cluck about the shame of it all, keeping folks hating “damn Northerners” while never seeing who’s selling the land and heritage. 

I wonder what happens when no workers can afford to live and work nearby? Will you complete your dreams of feudal lordships with servants all around, dependent on your land and charity, no church left to regulate usury or the thickness of the sticks with which you beat your human chattel?

I hear all this in these early morning sounds and want to scream out to people,

Rise up, revolt, remember who you are, not who they tell you to be!

But I’m just another Cassandra, like every other wife whose husbands appeared to listen, but continued on towards Doom.

Every Fannie Lou, every Che, every Malcolm, Patrice, and Grace; every Angela, Stokely, and Miriam; Lolita, Ramon and Segundo, and every Dennis, Clyde, and Russell: listened to, but not fully heard, because actions are too few, when any.

The young ones seem so conscious: of Earth Mother, and others who labor round the world,

Of animals and water, clean air, and joy.

I pray each day, afraid it might be too late, but knowing that we cannot, must not, will not give in to despair. I worry as I hear them buying into ideas of generation gaps and lumping elders all together, rejecting the allies with experience and love. Perhaps the chain of Community is irrevocably broken, because they’ve never known a world without 24-7 ads of propaganda,

Never seen groups working across differences for the good of all.

They’ve never known Yangtze River dolphins, nor white rhinos, or golden toads beyond some stories or photos,

Just loss and overstimulation, and rhetoric that makes them think that the workers who bought into American Dreams had Power instead of seeing them as deluded peers to be wakened from their strivers’ dreams.

My hopes are few, yet violently strong:

I wish to wake every sleeping mindset,

shake every single body into wakefulness and agreement on these very few, deathly crucial things.

I’ve prayed to be the Avenging Angel of Justice since seven, and pray now to smite each greedy leader who sacrifices our Earth and Her living souls for their short sighted gains and power.

I wish to fly like lightning, swooping down to save and avenge the planet I love and everything that is part of the natural world.

But I wish to understand what makes such creatures tick before I smite, that my justice is right and righteous. To have it explained, ‘cause their lack of humanity spells death not only for me and mine, but also the children they purport to love, and to whom they’ll bequest their soul forsaken world. I wonder how such creatures exist or think and how they cannot get the basic facts of life and physics: we are all connected through Life. That the illusion of separation is strong, but it is the ultimate joke towards understanding the Universe and how it works: we recognize or die. Unity or Destruction: there is no middle way.

I wonder, as my father instructed, and try not to worry, as it’s ultimately counter productive to action, and action is what I need and want and what might (maybe?) save our world.

But mostly I want to see this world restored to full beauty. To have the children grow with grace and awe, and elders grow wise and kind. To see the animals thrive and plants renew, for arts and healing and generational concern to be our leaders. 

For rain to once again taste sweet and not acidic. I want the babies safe and nurtured and loved, be they two legged, four legged, winged, crawling, or fanged. I want Life.

And being the crazy old lady I am, I dare to dream this dream awake:

I dare to dream of the Peace the comes from Balance, from a sensitive, affirming rendering of Justice. The Peace that’s born from a universal and eternally wise Love. The Peace that meets the heart’s desire in harmony with the cosmic song.

I want to see everything false fall to dust and get blown away to Source, perhaps to be reformed into something useful and good. Like Victor’s father in Smoke Signals, I want to wave my hand and restore all that is good. My waking dream.

6/17/24