at this point we just go there to grieve and make a record of grief.

change here is death, hope here lies.

weary bridge.

tour of the wasteland. the surveyor walking in a daze, eyes seared, heart suffused.

i was weeping inside on the island today.

it smelled of shit and death.

strength in what? remains

just at the low willow we saw a pair of herons returned to the dead lagoon.  a cry for all whose homes are being destroyed.

tree picture.

if this is not the end what is it. the lucky ones.

what we will leave behind will resemble a toxic sludge of depleted life. furrowed brows and shallow labored breath.