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E.O. Wilson says that when the elephants die, so will we, who have sought, seen and named 12,000 kinds of ants, leaf-cutters, armies, iridescent and fiery. "The Mind of the Biosphere," we are busy with our big-game hunt for happiness, rounds of beer-pong that require focus, sidewalks, half the earth. Humans shuffle to extinction, cups in hand, cloaked in microbes, in sunny fealty to fickle gods, while earthworm nations and unknown species settle the moist jungle, nomads in the dark. I recycle, shut off lights and shiver. The future has always been uncertain, this not-knowing as familiar as love—as luck — (to share our genes with thriving rats.) One day, when costly measures yield slight progress, we will cite the sad numbers, mention those poachers on the savanna. E.O.Wilson says we already know what happens to elephants—to us— when families are broken, when matriarchs and memories are lost.
Copyright 2018 S. B. Merrow. First published by WordPeace.
S. B. Merrow was a flute maker for 40 years, and now, mostly retired from that work, is again concentrating on her first love, writing poetry.