These rhythms and
rocks are self evident, been here before any of us remember.
But these grasses came as migratory winds of life, with our plows and our boats.
And groves? The old ones became fences and houses; shelter,fuel and boats to survive on these shores.
All compliantly working together now, trees and rocks and grasses, and
a super-ordinary channel
built to contain the enthusiastic orgy of
winter rains and ocean tides
determined to regulate time and space, runoffs and upsurges
to spare property damage and maybe, as good measure,
lure ocean-fatted fish pre-disposed to spawn on these rocky
This is the rhythm of modern Adams and Eves
mediated, medicated, articulated in visionary terms
like advertising slogans;
wild species all
contained in channels built by corporate dreams
translated for public consumption
dressed in comfort and joy
from January to December
from sea to shining sea
importing grasses and dog food from cheaper shores.
And the fish? They swim in and out of this channel, until tired and old
and longing for rest and validation
after a lifetime of
mutations and escape games
mastered on foreign soils. Then,
craving those old
smells and tastes of youthful vigor
they return to spawn their last dream on these shores.
By the time we return to our cradles
to the apple pie and Mother's sauce
we're too blind to notice how many trees were felled for our comfort
how many rivers dammed to feed our cattle.
Like the salmon, we'll swim upstream to keep our dream,
to be counted among the species living on these blessed shores.
(Still in progress...