Hounds at Home

You sit in the shadowed nook
Of a sunny room at noon
In your quiet, local world

Where nothing much seems to be
Happening, and you tremble
With the dopamine craving

For news of some disaster,
Some far-off tectonic shift
Great enough to change the game,

To initiate a new phase
In the world as you’ve known it,
Yet distant enough to not

Threaten immediate harm
To you or your neighborhood.
Doesn’t this slightly describe

You? Circumstances differ,
But each wind sounds like marching
Gods in the leaves. You quiver.