Here on Gossamer Creek I’ve listened well
to the steady chuck-a-luck of bullfrogs who
flop and flip among the ferns,
A Tag-A-Log of sorts, a reverie
at dawn and dusk.
The lead barker reads the daily news at five;
at Randall’s eddy a blade of glass has split itself
in three and today at noon a tot had spilled
her juicy cup into the wash like elderberry wine.
Where Reddy Snap, the emperor turtle glides
from shore to shore and Moss the Muskrat marks
his turf from to cove to covey ‘til the tadpoles turn
beneath the mud.
I often wonder whether or not our news reaches as fas
as this brook,
whether or not these waders know that demise
and doom is projected for tomorrow,
that Earth has spun itself into a peril,
that the banks of Gossamer will soon be baked to
crust, the blades of grass will turn to stalks
and husks and reeds.
Would the Christian God of Love revert His course
or has he reverted to his former self,
destroying Yahweh from on high,
demanding that a covenant be held
and searching for a Noah, Moses or Abraham
to obey and live out his commands?
Or has a fickle Mother Nature flown
into a jealous fit of rage
at us who’ve forgone the lore, the lute and page
for the blueish glow of the all-seeing device
that charts her every move?
Would the high priests of our age elect to stay
the sacrificial blade in light of this eclipse
and can we move the stones together to erect
a new temple that ushers in a Golden Age,
that brings a riper bounty not nursed by blood,
where freight trains slide in tandem with the winds
and the derrick pumps in strict coordination with the tribal law?
I elect Chief Reddy Snap and make the river crickets scribes,
thrust Moss the Muskrat into the Marshal Seat,
for the gas house gang which masquerades in suits has held
no finer, more suitable banner high
and sinks its teeth into the remaining fruit
without scattering the seeds for tomorrow.