In central Ohio a bumble bee plays dead
on the arm of a wicker chair
except you don’t notice because you’re busy
watering red geraniums with a blue tin can.
Pantless with a pacifier in your mouth,
you mumble dada come, dada do, dada get
– awe-struck at this new power you have
to change the course of history with a small gesture.
I imagine the same kind of gesture
George McJunkin made over a 100 years ago
in Folsom, New Mexico
when he stepped down off his horse
to discover the skeletal remains of a giant bison,
extinct then, longer extinct now
– death by fluted Folsom Point.
North of us a neighbor’s lawn mower growls.
On the stone patio the shadow of maple leaves
shimmer, reminiscent of water.
Enamored by an ant separated from the colony,
you turn your weapon of choice onto its wasp-like body,
drown it in a small puddle of water. Awe-struck,
you observe quietly this new power you have
to change the course of history with a small gesture.
—
Jason Harris is a Black American writer. He served as co-editor to the book Light Enters the Grove: Exploring Cuyahoga Valley National Park Through Poetry (Kent State University Press). His writing has been published in several literary magazines. To read his work, you can visit his website https://jasonharriswriter.com/.
