The dawn sky beyond my window is soaked with color.
The pastel shades of red, gold, and orange are too beautiful
to say, and so I stand mute, listening to the rustling movements
of the early breeze — that blessing — and then the startling cry
of the first birds, the young ones, who soon will soar
beneath the streaking poisons and never know
the freshness of pure dawn, the only moment
that was ever real, before the ruin of the living world
was written in a sky calligraphy that no one would confirm
except the few who looked up, the witnesses who saw the spell
cast over their land, and knew the end was rushing to them
in toxic showers, in long slow dripping death, and no,
there was nothing to say, but stand deep in the colors of dawn,
mute, listening to the rustling of the early breeze — that blessing.