There a cluster of meager hayricks
(a scatter of middling boulders?)
seen dimly through rain & dusk.
Or wings, the rounded shoulders
of beasts unfathomably older
than words, feeding in fields ampler
than sky, fifteen turkeys wilder
than earth’s gradual & cataclysmic
events suggest, grounded survivors
of winged fingers soaring Jurassic.
The welcome sight of four black ducks
winging up from sleeping quarters
deep in salt marsh, metallic quacks
barely heard, silhouettes conjuring
hidden nests — spartina shelters
for ticking eggs, pocked shells harboring
next generation sons & daughters
primed at hatching to swim concentric
rings through waters mirroring
winged fingers soaring Jurassic.
Charleston’s feral population shrinks
season by season. We lose neighbors
as permits are granted, new construction
whittles down the open space, plunders
what gives me courage — plant matter
& wild animal grace. City folks off kilter
pay no mind to habitat erasure.
The I-deserve-it human pandemic
year after year augurs the ignoble halt
of winged fingers soaring Jurassic.
Polluted dawns rise even golder
over earth without singers & grazers.
Earth before progress was ecumenical.
What will stay to lift our hearts after
the last winged fingers soar Jurassic?
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