Loba Equinox

Sounds of mother nature collide midair, it's Ostara, spring. The sound of of man dominates the 21st century. Nature takes a backseat. No wolves howl at the equinox moon. We drive up 880 along the bay and it's a postcard perfect day out there. Beauty times beauty is equal to itself. But we are all safely tucked inside our little boxes like tins of Christmas cookies. Conversation fills the a car, floods the space between the man-made, engines running, relentless tires. Nature is holed up, offshore, locked in a vault, with a Swiss number. We can't hear her speak. Meanwhile, Sarah Palin authorized the killing of hundreds more wolves. Today guns ricochet across the tundra, and echo on our back streets. Sharon writes of how old Lupe, at age 16, shuffles arthritically down the street. And everyone stops to admire and pet her. The well-heeled and homeless alike. They want to know what breed. She doesn't tell them. Loba, loba, loba—or beauty will be diminished. Thunder on the horizon.

3/21/2009