Ian Randall Wilson

The Interference of the Women

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We gather against volition
on the town’s single hill.
The waters are rising
everyone smells salt.

The priest did not have time to dress
and is disheveled as are the rest of us.
The sheep dogs
are trapped and vexed.

Some old people believe the day will join
other days in the town mythologies.
The younger ones
not as sure.

Birds gathered in the trees are quiet
against their natural impulse to scold.
Above us something streaks
across the sky.

Savior of the planet
or destroyer of the human race.
The dead are trying
to tell us.

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