Swallows have so much to say,
while far off hills have so little.
If it were the other way round –
if swallows quieted,
intent on snatching breakfast,
while hills roared stories
about what they have seen,
like those days when single cells
had just popped into being,
when varied life forms began to vie
for survival, when oceans swelled or ebbed,
when mountains rose and fell, enduring
traumas that shaped them
into these soft teal hills –
would it make a difference,
if we heard of those early times?
We might treasure this earth more
if we learned of life’s balance
before humans built tools or burned fuels,
before we darkened air and water, and added
to its fertile soil our refuse, our cast-off toys,
our war-drawn blood.
—
Carol Mikoda is the author of two chapbooks, most recently Wind and Water, Leaf and Lake (Finishing Line Press, 2023). Her work appears in Acta Victoriana, Tiferet, and other journals. She lives near Seneca Lake in New York State and has strong attachments to clouds, trees, water, and music.
