Standing on the hill, spinning a bullroarer. A warrior-poet calls. Who will answer?

whirling wind

an Autumn night

deepens

Already, the signals from 47 forecast the reversals of sound policy. The high anxiety of demoralized, defeated voters spikes into frustrated bursts of impotent outrage.

rattle

of leaves across

sidewalks

My own cheeks have not yet dried. My own sorrow vacates with an offer to return. But I stand on the privilege of not being targeted for harm. What right do I have to rend my garments in lamentation without also preparing to act?

even while

night tempests abound

city sounds

I nurse my still-beating broken heart. I listen to the dark and stare into silence. & as the ever-bright luminosity of reality invisibly radiates through this illusory sheen, I prepare the most potent weapon I wield—language. Haibun, to bear witness to the marginalized. Senryu, to ruthlessly satire any sociopathically ideological nonsense passing for policy. Haiku & tanka, to celebrate our authentic harmony with each other, nature, and Love.

as the winds

still to silence

night traffic

The bullroarer ceases swirling. The call has gone out. The wait for an answer continues.

beyond

a light-polluted sky

the stars