I walk alone beside the stream heavy with dread that
I can’t shut down: angry at, afraid of
the toxic political maelstrom infecting our nation
but what use is my worry to the creek?
Down there in the shallows
sea-run cutthroat trout are spawning,
spangling in sun spikes through shade,
careless of the state of the world.
Along the way, alders dangle their catkins
and whisper pink into their first leaf-buds.
Maples hang their chartreuse bloom to the winds,
unconcerned of the shocking events:
Corporations before people.
Death to the uncounted poor
and the brown.
Children caged.
The business of money above the needs of life.
Where the stream opens into a small glen resting
between two hills, the water slows as it snakes along.
Eagles line its curves, picking off the spawn-weary fish
who give themselves up in the old way
but what use is my despair in the habits of
eagles and fish?
I
want to tell them that what I seek
cannot be found among the roads of humans.
That I find solace in how my senses note
such ordinary things as bud-break, of fish scales
silvering under the sun, of maple pollen
erasing the clarity of my windshield, of how it feels
to grasp dinner in your talons.
How it is to easily give up your life when
laying or fertilizing eggs defines your purpose.
From the bank I release a tiny boat,
a half of a walnut shell.
If I could place my fears
in its hold, I would, but what are fears to a seed
remembering
its wooden nature?
Let it run on
past the fish and trees, let it bob untouched
by eagles.
It is
Easter
but what use is a day of resurrection
when the planet and its beings are the sacrifice?
J. Pratt-Walter
4/12/2020
