Do Not Run

This is how I know I’m alive—

We built a triangle—
             church without walls
                       tree-ripened music in the nick of time.

In the rare event you do
          work nearly five jobs
                         there is no simple fix.

Percussionists strike. 

Do all you can to appear larger.

                Housing pipeline connective tissue
                           dark yellow skies          electric field

What we find when Mother Nature 
              packs a punch—

a freight train, the evacuation game

Last chance winter                      mud-engulfed vehicles 
                       all seems lost. 

Do I eat—or pay the landlord?

                        In the mist of missing summer

I said yes to this thing in my backyard.

Face the animal.
Do not turn away.
Wave your arms.

                          Pick up small children.


 

^{This poem has its sources in hiking safety advice, a separate community poem, and local news reporting.}