the empire of terror destroying earth.

The window is a form

of consciousness, pattern

of formed sense

through which to look

into the wild

that is a pattern too,

but dark and flowing,

bearing along the little

shapes of the mind

as the river bears

a sash of some blinded house.

This windy day

on one of the panes

a blown seed, caught

in cobweb, beats and beats.

Window Poems

by Wendell Berry

Olive wanted to climb out the window last night hearing the cicadas buzz in the courtyard. I wonder if she knows how high we are. I wonder if she thinks she could fly on the sound of wings. I read a poem of Wendell Berry this morning followed by Rest in Peace. Reading his Window Poems is directly different now. 

 I'm so sick of Israel.

you're stretched very thin, you can't keep it up, and you're running out of ammo. 

The Ecocidal History of the U.S. Military – EARTH'S GREATEST ENEMY.  

 you are shocked, daily, but not surprised, really, you knew deep down it could not, would not, end well.