We’re kayaking up a thin snake of a stream,

past cottages, silos, and swaths of golf greens.

Carp splash and thrash and some ram our small boat,

while we laugh and struggle to keep’er afloat.

Then, we’re out in the boonies where few people tread

and, like explorers, feel excitement and dread.

But, what we fear’s not what’s ’round the next bend.

It’s that the time of the wild is nearing its end.

The flocks, herds, and schools that once filled this land

are reduced to mere remnants by pressures from man.

Thus, animals scatter when they sense us near

’cause hop, swim, or fly, they all share the same fear.

‘Course, we can’t help but think that they’re right to do so,

but are saddened too, to see them all go.

Then, a heron swoops down on gargantuan wings,

lands, stands, and searches for fish, frogs, and things.

Chickadees, starlings, and other small birds

return to the bush where they’re less seen, than herd.

Turtles claw up onto logs to sunbathe.

Cicadas and crickets start droning in waves.

Squirrels start gossiping ‘mongst the tall trees.

Dragonflies dart around beetles and bees.

Then, a mink – lean and low – pokes its head through the reeds

and studies us, closely, with eyes like black beads.

Amazed, we both gasp, and grasp at this small sign

that if we can change there may, still, be time.

Mother Nature’s not ‘beaten’, but She’s on the ropes,

and we’ve got to help her if there’s to be hope.