The Whip Cracks

This time of year leaves are nearly done flaking
I see faces in the streets lining the gutters
piled and on the sidewalk faces smashed and pasted.
In a stream belly-high nearly topping his waders
Indiana Jones looks up to see leeches drop
like catkins against a blood-red sky. His quest
is not for the Sankara stone, this time he searches
for the most precious of wild rice.
At the foot of the Himalayas the passenger 
elephants absorb the attack, as do the branches and
bushes, grass, stone, and water. Halfway across the globe
I shudder as the whip cracks like lightning; 
Mother is once again demanded to produce more.
Sons and daughters cannot afford to consume less 
and this the most urgent kind of fuel source.
As the lash rings out feathered over the land
the sky opens and rains potatoes, lentils and
chickpeas on the populations below.
Indi smirks as Mother is once again brought
to her knees at the hands of man. This time
of year the frost begins to harden on the ground. 
Faces in the pines, in pearls of dew hanging
on grass blades, faces in the passing clouds. 
I look up as a sycamore thunders overhead. 
We produce answers at an astonishing rate, and yet 
here we sit on the side of the road, hood up, and nowhere to go.

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