hazy sun sparkles an apocalyptic glow across grass that crunches underfoot as i go check the bird box for spring hatchlings too soon grown for this violent world, this cess of rhythms that seethe breathy dares to whom all these presents shall come, greetings, in dulci jubilo, until the sweet recompense of our reward stays the hand of the axeman so that we may once again strive against each other seeking fortune and glory and that ill promise of capital gain which serves our dreamy desire, the American dream, that nest coddling our young minds in our house shut out from the hazy sun of this reality