In Case of Emergency

The dogs are the first to know – always
on guard for this kind of thing.
They smell it and sniff and dig and
would claw it out – if it weren’t buried so deep. They tell

The moon, who listens – always
waxing and waning and indecisive.
In premonitions and dreams she
sees it all at once – but is never sure. She tells

The heaviest clouds – always
lingering with their fat bellies swollen
‘til they just might burst into pieces
and then crash – and they are telling

The dirt, the soil, the earth – always
moving and shifting and churning
and mixing into a great cake –
sprouting candles and telling them,

The grass and trees – always
reaching for heaven and coming up with
air. So they say Something is urgent and
the air says I know, the clouds already told me, I told

The kid on the highway – always
driving too fast, his window down
to stay conscious – he feels it in the cold and tastes it on his breath
and can’t quite name it, or call it, or tell it.