It is night, quiet in Pacific Highlands.
We had thought fields and trees would always be, trees not felled, foxes in dens but then the big green days died in mounded ground covered with CATs. It is night; tomorrow no birds will sing. Their song blossoms have died—gone where flowers went. Life retreats as bleak stores rise, young crowds come to trade with Joe, bank with the stagecoach We long for the unspoiled, lose it forever to greed, garbage, concrete and tires. Robert Halleck is a member of San Diego's Not Dead Yet Poets. Comments are closed.
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Photos used under Creative Commons from Michel Hébert, brighterdaygang, aivars_k, rchdj10, dalbera