[They call them firehawks]
Science Times, February 5, 2018
They call them firehawks, flocks of brown falcons,
black or whistling kites that snap up rodents
flushed by the smoke and sparks of brushfires.
And when the flames sputter, they snatch
lit twigs, fly half-a-mile to start
new fires to resume the hunt.
Or so go the stories, told for years, as yet
unproven by research in the field.
That black kites snatch food from children’s hands
in schoolyards, this is known. And that
in Aboriginal lore, human knowledge of fire
dates to the Dreaming, the time before time,
when the firehawk brought embers
to people on a burning stick.
The Hunger Stone
New York Times, August 24, 2022
The year was 1616.
If you see me, weep, said the stone
exposed in the riverbed. The Elbe
drained by drought, the crops parched,
the farmers starving.
Did they walk toward the ocean,
too exhausted to carry even
their youngest, left behind
to fend for themselves? Or did they
sit with them by the roadside,
watching a pink sky, drowsing
hungrily before the darkening horizon.
Pluck
Science Times, July 18, 2023
The common coot builds nests
with condoms, carnations
made of plastic, discarded rubber
wipers that once swept rain from
Subaru or Chevy windshields;
while magpies, with thin
metal rods, those spikes
on buildings and rooftops meant
to ward off feathered fauna,
erect habitats described
by one observer, in admiration,
as ‘cyberpunk porcupines.’
Worldwide, dozens of species
construct with plastic bags, cloth
straps, fishing line, rubber bands
and cigarette butts, whose
nicotine may help deter
parasites (or poison inhabitants).
All of which causes
furrowed brows on some
ornithologists who’d prefer
their Nature Edenic. While others
celebrate these avian collagists who
fabricate from human trash
found on city streets,
without a power drill or plan,
a hearth and home of sorts
in which to make more birds.
Song of the Cosmologist
(on the death of the Sun)
Science Times, May 9, 2023
There will be a last sentient being,
there will be a last thought.
There will be a last wave, a last bird
taking flight. There will be a last
time to say Hello, a last Goodbye.
A last flash of light at sunset on the horizon,
a last walk down a mountain path,
a last swim in a mountain lake.
There will be a last cruel word
meant to sting. There will be a last
gun fired, a last suicide. And a last
sigh, a last song, a last breath
and heartbeat, a last chance to offer
praise before the litany of death.
.
Boyer Rickel
.