It’s the end.

The sky screams the most unnatural colors,
smoldering in the heat of the sinking sun.
Heavy clouds climb over each others knees
to escape the toil of another revolution;
grasping at the tops of trees with their fat hands
in an attempt to pull themselves free of the firmament.

It’s the end.

Rivers release children into the custody of towels and minivans,
the crocuses pull their colors about slender frames, and
footballs, baseballs, and frisbees, all call a halt to their flight
to nest once again in sports bags and car trunks.

It’s the end.