But the afternoon lounged long before us.
The breath of summer and dreams of things
we had made intoxicated us beyond waking.
And always the Great Horn on high trumpeted
its spin that our fears were overblown.
“Carry on,” the Great Voice said, and we did.
This was easier than looking a magnolia warbler
in the eye. “Build more and greater machines!”
the Voice cried, and somewhere in a marsh
the water turned green, and the turtles died.
“Don’t worry, we have a cure!” And they invented
emissions standards and tripled production of cars,
and a thin reflective layer thickened on the roof
of the sky, but we failed to notice because
we were watching Dallas and The Stepford Wives
on TV, and had been lulled to sleep by better
and more addicting shows to prop up ads
for soda and sunscreen. “What happened
to tanning lotions?” we asked, cancer rates rising,
and the Voice boomed, “We’ve invested millions
in research and our problems will be over soon.”
They left a thin strip of old growth trees
along the edge of the highway, harvesting the rest.
“Natural corridors” their deception was called.
The activists tied themselves to the remaining trees,
but the damage was done. We looked away,
driving our fossil-fueled machines thirty miles
to work and back home alone, to throw
a microwave meal on a plate. The glaciers
had long been melting. “Part of a natural cycle,”
the Voice declared, but some scientists spoke up,
only to see their research funds cut.
As dusk approached, it was hard not to notice
how hot the days had become, the wild storms
and floods, fires consuming swaths of the West.
The Voice had little to say now, though the news
kept shouting the number of deaths from each disaster.
Twilight now upon us, and some are ready to admit
the damage of the hungry path we’ve followed.
Many cultures and people, languages and rights
obliterated beneath our elephant feet. Those
who decried our profane violence against nature
from the start take no joy in vindication.
We stand together watching the first star emerge
in the night sky like a solitary lantern, an orphan, a tear.
.
.
Al Fournier
.