The Arctic Will Be Gone, And Maybe No One Will Remember The Super Bowl

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As you might paw through your freezer for food

She claws at sharp ice for mice, root or bug.

hunger gnaws her remaining cub like a fox trap of cold steel

A flake of an iceberg floe is just not enough to offer up a seal

She heaves the hulk of her head and sniffs the air

Human scent fills her senses, rifle scope shadows bear

That the primates are hurting themselves, she remains unaware

Nor does she know her cub will die too, a lean, lost teddy bear

Bob squints, thinks it’s a shame, but shrugs away any shiver of doubt.

“She’s far too near The Road, Jim. …We have to take her out.”

She slumps dead, the cub runs on, his shoulder wound trickling red

The crash of sound seems to crack underfoot ice, and sunder the sky overhead

“People need this oil. …Damn.” They turn. “I need this job. God knows it.”

Then Quiet. Sunless clouds collect complicit guilt. It is what we have chosen.

Her young one is the last of her ancient line, as old as oldest arctic ice

When she falls the majesty of this place melts like blood from her lifeless eyes

A globe-clenching ache prevails. They walk as white silence ices over the sun.

They brood. They know they do the dirty part, but you and I provided the gun.

***END*** Please share your thoughts on drilling in the arctic, Many thanks, Christyl Rivers

Written by

Ecopsychologist, Writer, Farmer, Defender of reality, and Cat Castle Custodian.

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