drugged trumpets don't blow, there are no fireworks of celebration. so here I speak: in the voice of trailing branches, reeling on human shoulders. I speak from where the hurricane snapped tree trunks. from where burning forests rage at the boundaries of human civilization. so here is my voice: pleading the sun rising at the year's early breath holding the hand of a little girl, who looks to live. at sunset, let your rage simmer, let there be another spring, another century.