Pink Clouds over Pine Valley, Dinosaur Tracks on Johnson's Farm

Pretty, ordinary morning commute,
No Armageddon in store or in sight.
"Who knows what we're doing
Or why we're doing it," a coworker

Asks, rhetorically, of course
Once the office work has begun
As if nothing would ever end
Recycling normal and strange

In the strangely normal course
Of all happening, the endless
Reconstruction of the ramifying past.
But then it was all never been

Never could be again, never
Anything having ever happened,
No such person, no such thing.
There were no clouds left over Zion.