Poem By Ayn Timmerman


The sun has brought
the temperature up to
lukewarm, inviting
rusty-green algae to bloom
and be stirred, dripping
wet on the end of
a stick held in the hands of
a little boy,
who drops the stick
in damp sand, perfect conditions
for one gene coded wrong
to send down one
exploratory root, while the
others die in the heat,
a single white thread followed
by others, while a water germ
that was grazing in the mass
finds itself on dry land,
which presents new dilemmas
to be overcome by locomotion,
and takes advantage of the
new land algae under the sun,
and divides itself, populating this new place,
until the green scum
climbs upward upon others,
and the germ sprouts legs
that can climb the stalk,
which increases in size
each year, as the germs,
germ no longer, but animal,
preying on the algae-plant
under the heat of the sun,
while the pool dries up
to the boy's disappointment.


Driving by the shore
on a moonlit summer night,
the teen finishes his beer
and the empty can hurtles
out the window, caught in a
breeze, and rolls to a stop
next to a clump of dune grass
in the sand, which blows
against the can, immobilizing it,
allowing a small mouse
to stuff it with dried grasses,
which create a soft place
to rear a family, in the shelter
of the aluminum, which it returns to
each year, creating a population
of can-dwelling beach mice,
occasionally falling prey to sea-hawks,
dogs, and the tires on the road near the
shore and the pool with the stick
lying nearby in the bug filled grass.


Miles upshore, near a city,
a man follows orders
and pulls the lever,
releasing thousands of gallons
of tainted water into the lake,
which diffuses downshore, near
where the hawk built a nest
high up in the tree, overlooking
a litter strewn beach,
offering access to mice and fish,
fish that filter the water through gills,
trapping oxygen and
chemicals in their veins, which
build up in the muscles and
fins that the hawk feeds to his mate
lying patiently on eggs
with paper thin shells, which
will break on the next rough landing,
exposing premature chicks
to the elements, and below
the mouse feeds her brood
in the shelter of the metal,
lined with the grass from near the
pool, while miles upshore,
a man turns on the television
to watch the discovery channel
while his family settles in for the night,
tired from a long day spent at the beach,
the same beach he played as a boy.


He turns to his wife,
sunburned and glowing;
'there used to be hawks there.'

Comments about Ecology

Dear Ayn, I like your poetry. it i nice to read something with some thought behind it. I am so tired of silly romantic nonsence written by love sick teenagers. I'm afraid there's not much real talent out there but I'm glad they keep trying. Ida Werrett

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