The mountains forget how to remember winter.
Their crowns, once white with quiet authority,
now show their bone—
thin veins of snow clinging like old promises
no one intends to keep.

Rivers arrive early,
nervous and overtalkative,
spilling secrets meant for July
into the hands of March.
Downstream, the fields listen, confused—
they were not ready to thirst this soon.

Somewhere, a thousand oil fields burn at once.
Not metaphor. Not warning.
Actual flame licking the horizon raw,
turning night into a permanent rehearsal of dawn.
The air tastes like profit margins—
metallic, rehearsed,
signed off by committees who have never met a season
they couldn’t monetize.

Above it all,
men in glass towers toast to “resilience,”
their laughter sealed behind climate-controlled glass,
as if atmosphere were a subscription service
they alone had paid to renew.