III
Years past the monarch butterflies
Arrived in my yard like clockwork,
Browsing my butterfly bushes
Along their ancient migrations,
But I haven't seen them for years and years.
October nights I'd stand outside the house
Listening for the tell tale flight of the geese
And I'd know we could count on the first frost
Not long after. But the nights are quiet now.
One year we watched a storm
Claim a beach. Next year
It was an island,
With all of its houses and churches,
Its landmarks and lighthouses.
John Muir once called the world
'The scripture of nature.'
Now that sounds like a fading refrain
Echoing in the Permian basin,
Or the epitaph of the Colorado
Scribbled on the Hoover Dam.
IV
All around us we see the scattered bones
Of what this place used to be,
The glory of its innocent perfection,
Enshrined in fossils and skeletons
Labeled on the museum shelves.
And the dust of what is to come.
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