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