For Carolee’s Big Tent prompt to write about the oil spill, or to freewrite about the impossibility of writing about the oil spill. This effusion emerged from my freewrite.
The soup of time endlessly re-invents itself,
shape shifting, scrabbling at the call of avarice,
of filth and clog and crumble;
gawbies,* inured to scandal, slopping heavy wings
in the presence of the apocalyptic.
Silence will greet us with death’s negligence
as we mourn the wicked end of species and of beauty.
Who will remain to marvel at the miracle of the ordinary?
The future flaps fruitlessly towards us,
with silent clogged gullet.