I wish to think of other things,
but there’s oppression afoot
as agitation is bad for the soul.
The hopes we’ve had for the future
seem based on a foundation of Jello.
Its become hard to hear birds sing;
Oh, to break this evil trance
fate and anger prepared for us.
It’s a dull winter, birds don’t sing,
owls and hawks frighten their prey.
I want to avoid the news, avoid reality;
keep my head in the many books
I have at hand, to no avail
for the bazaar tweets of his
rattle all of us, like owls freeze their prey.