the fallen tree

we see the priest out
in his black
vestment and collar.
the wind
in his silver
hair. his Irish eyes
wet with
cold.
his fleshy cheeks red.
he points up at
the power lines, twisted
and sagging
from a fallen tree.
three days
without electricity
he says.
we've been in darkness
too long,
but it's almost time.
Easter too is not far off.