Do I speak for Nature?
For there are
far too many channels
cut before my pen
bleeds through the paper.
I have no desire to
clothesline migrating passerine
with transparent telephone pole cables
just to see if they notice me.
Where is the passenger pigeon?
Its safety in numbers, flocks
foregoing death by sheer density,
but lo, we the upshot of
demise and cruel destiny.
What senseless utility of
scribing in quill and ink on scrolls
made obsolete by booming double barrel
action, feathers fletched for our infamous fetes,
fowl play in bags filled with extinct meager meats,
their fibers stuffed in silhouette,
echos never to repeat.
When we miss the mark,
our faults ring true
in the deafening silence that ensues.
photograph of a female passenger pigeon in captivity from 1898 (by J.G. Hubbard, source: Wikipedia).