Moot Sun

Audubon saw it:
a flock, he said, that went on
for two hundred forty miles.

Where they came down, trees
collapsed. On Sundays
men went out with shotguns—

thousands blasted of an afternoon.
The last one shriveled
in the Cincinnati Zoo,

1914. Not one
shows up at the feeder.
Not one in the pines at dusk

as you walk, a different
hooing than you're used to.
Not one. Can the cod

teeming the Grand Banks
vanish? The newt
sidestepping your bootsole

go back into itself? All those
husks of mayflies
bulldozed off the levee

into dust, and the cycle stop?
Will the sun set in the
ocean to the west? Will we

discover we are dogs
kicking our feet in dreams?
Can we ever be happy at this?

Oh, taste of clover
on your tongue. The last
sound before you fall asleep.

The sea of wings
beating down upon the trees.
Swimming under the great
shadows passing overhead.

Copyright © 2003 Ken McCullough All rights reserved
from Gingko Tree Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission