What Might It Be?

By Stacy Boone

In the end, I only had a flash of a second to see it from my window. It wasn’t the warring factions of political parties. Nor was it artificial intelligence and the illusion that humans were still thinking for themselves. It wasn’t a failed food system, the crazy dictator of another country, the orangy tan face of the oligarch perched on American soil. It wasn’t the trash littered into the sky or the aftermath as it rained down as space junk. It wasn’t fires that engulfed forests as if the tree trunks were kid-sized Lincoln logs. It wasn’t disappearing species, shifted water cycles, or the fetid air. It wasn’t the shorelines that climbed over sandy beaches, gutted manufactured dunes, and broke sea walls to drown houses. It wasn’t the fluoride added to water, the COVID vaccine or anti-vaccine protests. The solar flares were not helpful in the escalating situation. It wasn’t African bee mutations. It wasn’t racial inequity, the loss of a woman’s right to control her own body or over-woke suburbanites unaware of their generalized prejudice.

It wasn’t the rising temperature as the sun bore through an ozone layer more diminished with each passing day or the dark spots on roses, petunias, and the ivory skinned potatoes abandoned to rot in garden plots. Neither was it the sizzle of electricity at EV stations or the humming white noise of air conditioners. It wasn’t bovine methane. It wasn’t high cholesterol, obesity, diabetes, near-sightedness, bent necks from staring at screens the size of a palm, flat feet, sore knees, or bellies that hung over belts that bucked at the final notch. It wasn’t bacon held by the fistfuls, sugar consumed by the tablespoon, or coffee, so much to be told about coffee. It wasn’t tick infested deer that ate from the backyard and shat on manicured lawns. It wasn’t ill birds, or the price of a dozen eggs, but this might be a top contender to the final act.

On the last morning, humans continued to ink words, hid banned books, and read in the early morning darkness. Another cup of matcha green tea. Another shushed secret meeting. Another revision to a plan of action. Flash.

Stacy Boone returned to the east coast after living in southwest Colorado for a decade. As a retired backpacking guide, she shares with others how to build their own outdoor relationship, chronicles stories about water, and tells touchable stories about a changing landscape. Other stories and essays can be found in Appalachia Journal, The Upper New Review, Five Minutes, Quabbin Quills Anthology, and Field Notes at the Montana Natural History Center.

Find her at https://stacyboone.substack.com.