by Ron Dart
To Patricia Ross
Most slept, warmed by work,
bread and calming circuses.
Most flitted between dawn and
dusk, the light and fight for a
better day, far from sight, soul
and soil.
She, eyes ever alert for the
right things, soul attuned to
beating things, saw and felt
shifts in the soil, a movement
that seemed not right, too right.
She lifted the conch, the Ram’s
Horn high, blew long and hard,
hard, low and long. The council
and senators, initially, turned aside.
The people heard the ancient call.
They dressed for battle.
She kept the Horn close to lips,
refused to put it down. There was
a gathering, and at the gathering
much was garnered. All were told
an energy plant, if approved, would
secrete toxins into soil and soul, air
and aether, flesh and pores. Health
would falter and fail.
They had the money, the time to wait,
to wear down, water like, the rock of
resistance. The crowds grew and increased,
the gathering incensed, the script from the
Horn spoke a language that crossed tribes
and boundaries, parties and clans. This
rock would not be worn low, would stand
steady. The Horn would not go silent.
The courts, committees and councils
weighed the evidence. There was much
joy when a solid NO to SE2 was announced
by the Mayor. The Horn was not set down.
Such Horns never are.