Summer solstice, solar eclipse in cancer, from a long line of floods, fires, plagues and sinking calamities, is brought in with the sticky heat and trumped-up, sweaty fanfare.
The battle of all battles, footsteps stirring up a cloud of dirt and smoke around startled horses’ hooves. From within once-congealed systems of justice we find insidious betrayals: saboteurs go rogue, cackling through their intent to break ties either for good or for ill.
The whole (or hole) point is in the unraveling of the threads of “good” and “ill” each moral judgment’s current use representing a false foundation being tested, crying for mercy at the clutches of the oncoming melted glaciers.
Gods, villages and quadrupeds weep, but the catharsis comes over quiet meals for some: apocalypsis, or revelation, is right on the plate, right in the possibility of tears lubricating an endless encircling of gratitude for each other—the pumping heart of humanity, the high tide of sisterly love, the flame of collective life force, the only thing that matters.