The sparrows shook when they sang

What the fuck is going on today? I’m carrying too much weight. A book bag cutting into my shoulder, a faint brown stain on my blue dress, runs, holes, pithy tears in my tights. And all of these things I’m finding later, holding later, carrying when it’s too late to turn around. I’m wrapped around a nerve and keep biting the mounds of soft tissues and flesh on the inside of my mouth. My lips, the parts of my mouth you can’t see when I speak the parts that no one can ever see.
I feel pregnant and full of swamp.
The traffic, the cars, the emails, the texts, the voices. I blow out the weight like seeds on my chest. I blow and I blow until I pass out.
Walking to work, the trees drooped white flowers, southern in their hearts. The sparrows shook when they sang. My hunger panged and I have nothing I want to feed it.
What will the crazy sign-wielding not-christian christians do early Sunday morning when the world won’t end like they believe it to?