MMXXII

In the month of snow (diminished) beneath the wheat sprouts

Paper hats lay crumpled and binned, confetti swept aside, destined for the bin also. Drought has dampened the festive spirit. Fires burn unimpeded across the plains. They have reached the suburbs, to the franchise pizzeria and family entertainment center, to the membership retail warehouse, to the budget seafood eatery. Traffic is understandably a mess. Broadcast television journalists station themselves along thoroughfares of subdivisions evacuated. They interview bleary eyed police and firefighting personnel. They interview bleary eyed municipal representatives. “It beggars the imagination. It really does.” Casualty figures are revised upward, inevitably, but only to a certain point. The indigent have a tendency to disappear from spreadsheets. Meanwhile, volunteering veterinarians collect loose pets, furnishing onscreen reunions, “something positive to close out the day.” As credits roll, various milestones are commemorated, with a picture montage of the very young and very aged, those have seen or will see quite a lot, reverse respectively, in their own time.

Fire, Full Moon (1933) by Paul Klee