Trying

The sky is still this morning, white, grey clouds with an icing of pink are fixed in place as if they had been hung in the sky as part of a grand design. Except for the soft cooing of an owl there is a stillness that belies the storm that tore limbs from trees and spawned lightning that blinded me last night as I drove along the flooded roads to the safety of our little house.

I am trying to make sense of my place in a world I don’t recognize. My thoughts drift to those skies above countries at war scattered across the globe. Where the flash of light in the sky isn’t caused by an angry Mother Nature but by the madness of sapiens of one sort or another.

Among the rubble, I see a child’s tear-stained face looking up at the sky and asking why as I did when my father died before his time. What scars are forming in the hearts of those whose lives have been interfered with by these man-made storms? I can’t imagine the horrors they will believe are justified when they are old enough to hold a sword.

The list of our transgressions grows each day; I shield my ears from the reports of new atrocities and feel the pain rise. The pain brings my wandering mind back to my aging body; the ravages of a life lived in harness to the organizations that tried to right the wrongs and now all their good works are in shambles. Daily reminders of fingers on the scale of justice. Done by madmen who rule commerce and now the lands upon which they stand.

I rise under a sky of white, grey clouds with a fading icing of pink. Suffused in sadness I walk slowly careful not to miss a step as the owl calls its mournful goodbye.