The Red-Knot

.

Tonight, in late February, I am warm and thinking
of a small bird, in Tierra Del Fuego
the heft
of an avocado.

She is preparing with her flock
to follow . . . What? The Moon?
The tilting of the Earth?
The voice of love? Let’s just say:
an ancient mystery,
to fly to
the other
end
of the world.

A delicate schedule must be kept
for the window and her flock, grow thinner
each year-journey.

What is it like
to be pulled, without
argument across the Earth?

I want to know a purpose as direly
as the tiny bird
hop, hop, hopping . . .
away.

 

And we made millions

And we made millions while the world lost its balance.

And we made millions as the skies grew silent from the twitter and hum of magical dinosaurs who had learned a lighter way.

And we made millions while our windshields stayed cleaner and cleaner each summer, the drying fields crying out for vanished legions to come and turn blossom to seed.

And we made millions and millions of imaginary treasures, of no real consequence, having convinced ourselves of near-immortality and spoke of a demon-god who would reward us in the life to come.

And we made millions, happily: not noticing the quieting of the world around our fictions, filling it instead with machinery’s alien rumble, keeping us ignorant of the horrible silence we had created.