Dream the Apocalypse #24

Come black ice, or avalanche,
      I can't recall, some growing
doomed-up apocalyptic crawl.

Coven on the mountain's 
    circling the troops, and a fire's
been lit under everyone's throat.

Bears out there, buffalo, 
   all the big-eyed Animalia 
tearing the night to slick shreds. 

It's coming too fast, this
   impending death, but I won't
go in the cave just yet.

I stand in the dirt under the oak's
    sharp leaves and call your name
like a command, like a last word.