Away from the gurgle and whirl
of the digital with its breaking news
of a planet overrun by humans,
we step out the door and into the veils of evening,
into scattered leaves and gathering mists,
a landscape of silo domes and shed roofs,
limp fields and the cool damp silence
of a world made local by fog,
where the doe that prances in wet clover
seems more relevant to our lives
than all the intentions of nations,
her tail swaying like a metronome
as she melds into the trees,
and we follow, no one asking
for money, no one predicting
an apocalypse, night coming on
in a screenless peace,
and really no one at all,
six days before The Election.
