I Thought It Might Be the Apocalypse

        I thought it might be the apocalypse.
The air shimmering, circling, bright.
        Children in their homes,
        Parents afraid of the night.

        A low horn blaring, incremental,
resounding.  All Four Corners are listening
        And they all know it's time.

        The trumpeteer, triumphant, returning
at last.  His chariot on fire, takes
        away all last breaths.

        We all go out to watch Him.
The air shimmering, circling, bright.
        All fears and doubts vanish,
        Leaving only

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