Then Who Shall Win?
Ghost crabs in moonlight scutter across a dune.
Though camouflaged as air, they’re not immune
To the potent peril inching toward their site,
A feral demon threatening to smite
Whatever’s in its way. Then who shall win?
Creatures with shell or claw or wing or fin
Check out when oil checks in. They can’t elude
The kind of predator described as “crude.”
When pelicans and turtles start to glisten
With grease, it means in due course they’ll go missin’.
When such contamination reaches beaches,
The throngs won’t swim or bask or savor peaches.
Yet that alone could be the opening
For piping plovers to come around and sing
Their fife-like tunes again. The shore will heal.
Nature, not humankind, is at the wheel.
How many centuries, though, will she need
Before even a ghostie comes to feed
On seaweed that won’t sicken? Crude is flowing,
And no one knows which way the tide is going.
— Martin Elster
(27 Nov. 2010)
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