Voices of protest force us now from the twilight of slumber, where we have been indulged for too long a time in the safe complacency of streetlamps at dusk and lit windows of homes–some majestic and others quite quaint–glowing onto snow covered lawns.  A new cynical outlook, toward our political leaders, accompanies us now from the rush of arriving trains into Midwetern stations for holidays and exta sun on those glorious longer days of June when summer is still young.   Something is not right about the decisions that have been made these past weeks, actions taken in quick moments of stolen opportunity.  Injustice has come to us the way that clustering leaves settling onto the surfaces of pools signal the end of September, to make gateway for the bare branches and stiff air of November.

        What hushed dreams must have lived in whispered thoughts, through the vast hallways and corridors of the very place where we as a state stood only a few seasons back– when our hearts still knew such a large capacity for wonder.  How foolish we had been in the wake of a storm called election delivering impending doom, as we held in our hands something many of us were too young to play with.  Hope, that had always flowered like the first green signs of spring against a crust of left behind snow after a hard won winter, was at stake.  Many of us did not know it.

       From the embers of our ether dreams we hold onto a reluctance given to swimmers down in the depths beneath the surface, where all is quiet and calm before the noise of splashing and voices resonates above the edge of the water. But the quest for air urges us toward the discomfort of full consciousness.  We have to breathe!  This thing has happened in the winter of our discontent.  Wisconsin’s catastrophe is complete.


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