The Squawk

Maybe I couldn’t write there because there were hardly any leaves. How is the wind rustling the leaves supposed to mean anything if the trees are made of twigs? I have never read a poem about beautiful sticks.

I have been taught to idolize nature that is lush with its Christmas candle scents and greens visible from outer space. I have been taught to crave the simplistic chirping of the Robins outside my window as they nestle into the grass, bathing in dew, while looking for their breakfast. That mountain, the one that shines through only on a sunny day and blinds the average viewer with its snowy peaks, I’ve been taught to love that.

But what about the goats? Who’s going to love them as they line the highways and consume the trash that was shipped to them by foreign polluters? What about the desert? Its doing everything it can to hold the Baobob’s roots into the ground. It’s using all its force to pump life into the shrubs and palms, even though it hasn’t felt rain in months. What about the Snakebirds? The ones who sit in the leafless trees and fan their wings back and forth hoping that they will dry after their brief dip into the sea. Who’s going to love their abrasive squawk? 

My eyes turn sad when I see the burning trash. The giant pit full of every created product you can think of, smoking and fizzling, suffocating the secret lungs of earth. I think of the snow on that peak melting sooner than it should. I think of our plump trees shriveling into prunes. Wind that smells like sulfur. 

I think of a brown world, but I ignore the beauty in the goats, the Baobob, the squawk. I ignore my privilege. The privilege that allows me to idolize the nature I am used to as the most beautiful form. The privilege that allows me to preach against pollution as I drink my clean tap water from the glass. The privilege that allows me to survive while our planet suffers.