—17—
The Selk’nam believe
at one time, long ago,
people did not die.
After many lives
they grew tired
of being human
and so fell into
an extended sleep
in which they were
transformed
into trees, rocks,
clouds and creatures,
after which they woke
strange and refreshed.
—18—
The descent from 10,300
to 7,000 feet is quicker,
hard on the knees and thighs,
an utterly different trip.
In a few weeks extreme drought
will close the trail
with the Jemez Fire, Pecos Fire,
Silver Fire, Black Forest Fire
ablaze, on the same day 62 million
in the Midwest prepare
for a gargantuan storm system,
the same day orange signs
go up along the Paseo
del Bosque Trail,
extreme fire danger,
extreme fire danger,
the same day the governor
shuts down the Rio Grande
watershed in three counties,
the same afternoon I cycle
south from the BioPark
along the Barr Canal,
where the Desert Cottontail
race me for short distances
on the bike path, where
the skunk family crosses,
crowds the burrow
and disappears,
where beavers leave their marks
on the pointed stumps of trees,
where the trail gradually unfolds
from small farms
to industrial flatland, along
the concrete diversion channel,
where a few wan trees hum
see and see. The lone survivor
of the Yarnell Hill Fire fled
his lookout post as the wind
whipped the flames
and they suddenly
changed direction. The blaze
consumed his perch, chased
the other 19 Granite Mountain Hotshots
into a valley—the worst place,
the place where their only choice
was to wriggle into
their silver, pod-like heat bags
and pray—as the fire
roared through, taking them all.
And the one just a short
distance away. All he could do:
watch.
—19—
In 2013 thirty-three juvenile
Indo-Pacific bottlenose dolphins
washed up dead on the beaches
of St. Vincent’s Gulph.
Immuno-suppressed
by heat stress, they succumbed
quickly to the morbillivirus,
transmitting it to others
in their close-knit pods.
—20—
To the left of the trail we spot
the little nipple cactus,
Mammillaria meiacantha,
tiny labyrinthine bowl
ringed with white flowers.
It can grow and thrive
between rocks, up and through
asphalt cracks, with only
a few drops of water. Boil
the pulp and apply the mush
for an earache. On the map
I see we are too far north
for this variety, but I think
I’m rightly identifying it,
elongated and scarlet fruit,
yellow anthers, now hot
and dry enough at this elevation
to take root. The black
and yellow Atelopus zeteki,
Panamanian Golden Frog,
communicates via semaphore,
waving at rivals
and prospective mates.
In local mythology
it was thought that in death
it turned to gold.
Even one sighting predicts
good fortune.
Once saved from extinction-
by-poaching, now it survives
only in captivity—rising
temperatures in the mountains
spur evaporation, promote
cloud formation, decrease
day temperatures, raise night-time
highs, igniting the deadly
chytrid fungus, thickening
zeteki’s delicate skin,
triggering cardiac arrest.
—21—
Ophiopogon japonicus,
also called Mondo Grass,
requires no fertilizer,
is rarely affected
by insects or disease,
adjusts deftly to changes
in water conditions. Admired
for its tenaciousness
Ophiopogon now shows signs
of decreasing resilience,
approaching a threshold
at which it cannot survive.
Araucaria araucana,
the living fossil,
was alive 200 million
years ago, in the time
of the dinosaurs. Its trunk
is thick, reptilian,
fire-resistant. Heavily logged
for over 100 years,
the International Union
for Conservation of Nature
has declared its status:
critically endangered.
Kim Sooja’s Needle Woman
stands motionless
in the vortices of six
of the most populous cities.
Filmed from the back,
it’s the stillness
of her head, shoulders,
and black braid—
the masses move toward her,
around, and past.
It must take everything
to hold her place
in the chaos. And I want it—
still, stillness.
Make it stop.
—22—
Robert M. Carter, retired Professor,
James Cook University,
notable climate change skeptic,
offers Ten Facts & Ten Myths
on Climate Change, a platform
upon which to stand against
the prevailing wave of warnings:
The United Nations
Intergovernmental Panel
is the main scaremonger
for the global warming lobby …
Climate has always changed,
and always will. The only sensible
thing to do is prepare for it.
Anyway, the girl never really turns,
never shows her inscrutable face,
and it is the smallness in her elbow,
something delicate
about her calf, and I know
I’m supposed to know
what ankle, cotton, water,
and dark hair signify
in this amalgamation—
a pictogram I study
even while sleeping
for every detail of cloud,
breaker, sleeve, bones
still young enough
to ache at night, lengthening,
growing denser by the hour.
—23—
I listen to the Climate Dialogues
as if I too am a skeptic,
in an effort to understand
who I am not, someone
so different she seems
a member of an alien race—
bright-winged, prescient.
I maintain my skeptical stance
for almost the entire podcast,
log off, switch on
the evening news to wildfires,
and hurricanes. But,
for a short time I did feel
a sense of certainty.
The earth is old and changeable.
Nature’s cycles are long.
This, too, will pass, and our children
will continue to produce
children who birth their own,
and so forth and so on.
—24—
Little JR recites, for me,
Genesis 1:26. At seven
he is remarkably fluent
in the memorization
of Bible verses. His evangelical
church and school
give him supreme confidence
in the sovereignty
of the human race.
It helps and hurts
that he is unusually intelligent,
asking why, Auntie,
do you have photos of yellow frogs,
forest fires, maps of islands
and beaches over your desk?
He listens earnestly
as I explain, places his small arm
around me, tells me not
to worry. God
will take care of it.
—25—
According to the Wintu,
people came into existence late,
devoured water and land
at an alarming rate.
One man dreamed a whirlwind;
the others knew
this was a bad sign. They fled
to an earth lodge
as the winds started up,
taking down the trees.
The dreamer remained outside,
pressed up against
a nearby post, telling the others
what was coming: more
thunder, wind, rain. All the houses
blew or were swept away
but the dreamer held tight,
telling his people
the story of water. Finally,
the earth lodge lifted,
and then the post, and then
the dreamer, too,
and nothing was left
but water over the earth.
—26—
For three consecutive nights
I dream we are stick figures
in a giant earth tome: a book
of mudslides, a book
of super storms, a book
of drought-devastated fields
inside which we tumble
like the drawings at Puako—
right side up, sideways, flipped.
Are we singing?
Are we dancing? Are we waving
frantically in distress?
