the end of times

When it comes it will come
as a mighty rushing stillness.
The sky will burn, like any other sky.
The stars will blink under your feet
on the opposite side of the world.

Only the most learned will miss it,
those who search their books for signs.
And also the mockers of the learned.
But not the dumb creatures, the pagans.
The worm and the cow will know.

Even the little bird outside your window
perched on the branch of the elm
will know it with certainty,
will know that the end of times
has come, the renewing of the world.

He will stretch himself and shit,
and cry out a crazed song
of terrible fear and delight.
His little fan of tail feathers
will quiver with anticipation.