Dusty skies: a poem

It's late fall in the mid-Atlantic region of the United States
When people at the office talk about the weekend,
we all include the words: "good weather"

"Can't complain," says a colleague, "about wearing shorts in October!" I nod my head and smile.
My neighbor says he would rather rake leaves, than shovel snow. "So true!" I yell across the yard.

Then I realize: we like it. We like the warmer weather.
Climate change isn't the "end of the world" like environmentalists and climate scientists might suggest. It's the end of shoveling snow, scraping windows, itchy sweaters, bulky hats that mess up our hair.

I grew up cross-country skiing in Glacier National Park.
I bought my own skis nearly 20 years ago.
Memories of the smell of ski wax, the quiet blanketed woods, and laying track.
They gather dust in our attic now.
Not much use without good snow.
And Glacier Park is losing all reasons for its name.

I remember picking up my daughter many years ago at preschool. The school was at a small college and they were using a space under the boys dormitory. When I arrived, water was streaming into the preschool from the floor above. The kids were scared. Toys were ruined. Teachers were annoyed.

The source of this calamity? College boys taking lengthy and raucous showers on the floor above. Water was sloshing outside the showers and running down the walls. They had no idea they were flooding a preschool. They were enjoying a nice warm shower.

We are like these boys. Enjoying ourselves and our "good weather"
and not seeing the damage
on the floor below,
on the kids at play,
today and
tomorrow.