July 7, 2016

Some spare no law, inconvenience,

to assure their continued existence.

Where were you when the axe 

cut the last tree down?

 

I should be able to drive

my Jeep in the sand over

the nests of fragile eggs

and chains of food I will never

 

comprehend. How does

that small pepper burn

so big when the microscope 

cannot even see its heat?

 

Eagles came back, you say.

Now vandals shoot them

from the sky in the ultimate

symbolic treason.  Open

season on those newly

off the list. 

 

This is Poem #115 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I challenged myself to spend a year in which I’d wake most mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee. By the end of the year,  I had written 241 poems.  Here, I have published second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.