The insects are amassing on the other side of the screen.
Their wings brush out a call to action, a low drum beat.
The song dogs still sing at night, but now they sing of war.
The trees sigh their reluctant assent, weary of the heat.
80° in the arctic and the planet, our only gift, suffers from knowing us.
Cyclical spirals, layers of awakening, understanding is slow.
All sentient beings fear us. And we fear each other.
Our contribution has been ideas and inventions, of no use at all,
No improvements are possible when they are all brain, no heart or soul.
Most humans live so far from nature they do not see a thing amiss.
Our alignment to nature is not just off, it is gone entirely.
The otter and beaver are clear on their intent to join.
The red fox and wolf will march together, and the black bear is ready for the call.
The sand hill cranes will trumpet the first cry; while the eagles look out from on high.
Those who run, and those that fly, and even those who crawl.
Heat rises, thunderbolts ensue. Human privilege really was a thing.
You only feel the coming battles out here. The cities are numb, and ever dumb.
Humans fight each other there, based on the color of skin and bits of colored ribbon.
When I listen closely, I feel the gentle beat of all those wings.
Written by Linda Gottschalk during the last week of May 2020, a sad dark time