Bearing Witness

I am a quaking bog.

Although small, I contain multitudes.
And contradictions.

Spring peepers, pickerel, small-mouth bass, river
otters, spadefoot toads make this their home.
A Great Blue Heron hunts frogs at my margins.
Clouds of insects hum and buzz the sky.
Stones, cans, glass bottles cobble
my mucky bottom. On most
days I am an unstable surface.

Blue whales are losing their song,
their bass, their bulk—krill and plankton
populations are declining. Warmer
waters, algal blooms are increasing.
We breathe and drink microplastics.

A flash mob of ravens flap and
yawp overhead.

And yet, after their days of barrier
beach feeding, Little Egrets and
Osprey wing and wheel their way
to my safety. Bats, drone-like. click
and squeak overhead- see one enfold
an unsuspecting white moth.

Pink lady slippers, dragon mouth
orchids and bog bean perfume the
pond, while wild blackberries, plump
and purple, cling to the forest edge.

Hungry, red foxes and coyotes yip
and disappear into a moonlit night,
their eyes amber headlights. On a scrub
oak branch, a pair of Barred Owls lean in.
I long to hear the stars like the
vanishing Kalahari bush people—
their music, their wisdom, their warning.