I draw back the generator cover.
Yellow jackets swirl and dart in chaos.
I jump away. They don’t ambush,
but continue the reconnaissance
for a lost nest.
No bigger than capsules of Macrobid,
elongated dots in motion do not connect
where to direct anger
when global warming is the enemy
in a war my kind started—
the pulse of rescue/recovery helicopters
like hand mixers beating a world upside down.
Gasoline from the remains of organic matter,
perished millions of years before the dinosaurs,
the sharp smell, stiff as rigor mortis,
funnels into the generator.
The sound of water rushing everywhere,
but none to drink—
no road, no cell, no wifi, no power
to find if my son and his wife are safe.
I am startled that I am alive,
that it is warm at the end of November,
and another helicopter becomes the ceiling fan
of what is an unexpected blue sky.
—
Hilda Downer is the author of four collections of poetry: Wiley’s Last Resort (Redhawk Publications, 2022); When Light Waits For Us (Main Street Rag, 2021); Sky Under the Roof by Bottom Dog Press, a Nautilus Golden Poetry Winner (2013); Bandana Creek (Red Clay Press, 1979). Retired from teaching English at Appalachian State University, she also worked simultaneously as a psychiatric nurse. She received an MFA from Vermont College and is a long term member of the Southern Appalachian Writers Cooperative, Appalachian Studies Association, North Carolina Writers Network, and North Carolina Writers Conference. She lives outside of Boone.
