each counting day
let me tell it exactly as it was
the july when each counting day
nothing happened:
the accumulating dust of the land remained
a little thicker than the smoke in the air
(someone else’s crisis not ours here
yet)
the covid numbers rose and fell but did not disappear
the denseness above a little less white, or more
each hot afternoon an inhalation of fear
small plants quietly withered
the lower branches of each tree curled under
then the middle ones
words stuck in our throats as
in sequence, the climate changed by standing still