These Days   We hardly know what to believe these days. No one conducts the ten-thousand-voice choir, all of us desperately panting for praise for our ten thousand songs. The sound is dire:   no one conducts the ten-thousand-voice choir. We spend half our lives awaiting applause for our ten thousand songs. The sound is dire in this overheated world. Just because   we spend half our lives awaiting applause in the echoing discord, summer burns in this overheated world, and because of all the noise, no one hears, no one learns   in the echoing discord. Summer burns the flowers brown, and we’re all so damn tired of all the noise. No one hears, no one learns to play in tune. Even the walls are wired.   The flower’s brown, and we’re all so damn tired of screeching violins, too out of phase to play in tune — even the walls are wired. We hardly know what to believe these days.     © Michael Fleming Dummerston, Vermont October 2026