There was the convulsive urge to spit, vomit, curse, rant,
scream into the pillow.
There was the agonizing, water torture description of hope
going down in flames like the Hindenburg, plummeting to earth in real time,
the cool promise of something kinder, gentler turning to cinders, spiraling away,
borne aloft by an inferno of hate, ignorance and fear.
A story told in numbers on a graph.
I woke early and took myself for a slow morning/mourning walk
out among my old friends the quail, laurel and madrone, over layers
of red-orange sycamore leaves pasted on dewy black asphalt.
Like last November.
We will keep our marching shoes by the door.
We will gather our sign making materials.
We will refuse to become humorless and hateful.
We will clear our throats and keep our voices limber and loud.
Voices can shorten wars and topple dictators. I was there.
There is a familiar drumbeat in the distance.
Now we do this.