Cipher

Photo of a scorched Coast Live Oak that survived the Woolsey Fire, Conejo Open Space - November 2019
A scorched Coast Live Oak that survived the Woolsey Fire, Conejo Open Space - November 2019

The mother the daughter and the

What is that empty space? We need to fill it. Fill it up with explanations that amaze our self-regard. Here are compound eyes flecked with the dust of stars made by

Matter is a pickle, or is this pickle omnipotent, like energy, like the predestined, the chosen by

What is that fucking empty space? Us.

Nothing sacred here but us, but you and me and our tribe. Oh?

But, the elements. All of the dragonflies, all of their ancestors too, 300 million years ago, when their wings spanned two feet. As it was before, so it will never be again.

Shall we implode and sink? Melt our own wings, this time? (Because we are well-equipped.) To become a microscopic, sedimentary layer that will escape notice three million years hence?

Beyond the horizon, a hawk flies on recycled pinions. Raptor flight plan: no love, no hate, no war, just rapture. Where is the myopia of our species located? Maybe before I die, I will locate the exact spot, the elusive reptile, the part that struggles with the responsibility of being hitched to a pre-frontal cortex.

One thing I know for sure, a juvenile bet on divine intervention is the optimal losing hand. An ornamental bootstrap we created to comfort ourselves. To explain our existence and supremacy in the natural world. Oh my, the stories we made! At that stubborn, insistent junction with hegemony, it all goes bad.

Without long-term vision, we are as blind as bats without sonar. Might as well head back to the stone age right now. If we can survive the journey. When the threads unravel, we will not have time for repairs. Rumination is for ruminants. Going once, going twice…

The dissolving edges of a butterfly’s wings. She flies on according to her instinct, until the final grounding.

Sherrie Felton © 2020

By S. Felton

S. Felton is a writer, photographer and amateur naturalist.

2 comments

  1. My favorite stanza is:
    Beyond the horizon, a hawk flies on recycled pinions.
    Raptor flight plan, no love, no hate, no war, just rapture.
    Ah.

    What. Is. My. Body.

    This question
    can be asked
    until it dissolves
    contents
    into container;
    container
    into contents.

    To verify,
    regard a drowsing cat
    in the morning sun,
    how each hair glints
    with precision
    until visible fibers conjoin
    invisible substance.
    REM(C) 2020

Leave a comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.