If we could imagine that every word we speak
were an animal or insect, the last of the species
ever to be born, that the very act of speaking
brought extinction even before our words
had been heard and replied to, we might get a feeling
for the vanishings we witness but don't see. And if every
conversation were understood as a kind
of holocaust denuding whole landscapes, some people
would simply fall silent--as far as they could--
while most others would keep chattering on. Just imagine
the vast forests of lives, the near-infinity of forms
brought to a halt with a simple conversation.
And I would be one of the talkers, despite
the fact that I knew what my talking destroyed.
And so I would mourn every word I said,
even while I argued passionately for silence
and for learning to honor the sacred diversity
of life. Just imagine watching the stars
go out on a dark night in the far north, a clear night,
one after another until the sky was black.
Once, when I was taking out the garbage, just walking
dully across my backyard, a huge bird--
as big as a vulture but glittering and sleek--
rose from the grass and flew into my body,
knocked the breath out of me, then flew up and away
with a powerful pull of its wings. I could hardly
see it in the darkness. And then it was just gone.
From The Frozen
Harbor by Michael Hettich
2017, Red Dragonfly Press
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