A minute speck in the verdant distance
gradually grows, capturing my attention.
I stretch my body upward, the better to see,
if it be enemy, mate, or prey coming toward me.
In this green diocese purposeful movement
means one of three things: battle, mating, or nourishment.
Through the zigzag valley it shambles,
observing, recording, admiring the view;
halting now and then to examine
veins and canals on the trail it travels.
On down the long leaf road it rambles
toward my altar.
And I now shift into my prayerful stance,
for I have recognized my favorite food.
I patiently wait in my devotional pose,
frozen in a seemingly beatific trance,
making no sound nor blinking an eye,
silent and motionless as a spider
watching a fly.
In its absorbed observation and admiration
of the miniature, the passive, the vegetative state,
my victim glides on--unsuspecting and unaware
of its fate.
It is my favorite victim, my favorite prey,
for of all the creatures in this flowering garden
it is the most clever and calculating
and yet the most unwary.
Onward it comes
until it stands within my range,
and then it notices me.
And in that split instant
before it dies,
it marvels,
seeing something that never
in its wildest nightmare
it could have imagined:
a praying tyrannosaur with bug eyes.
Then--
in that instant when
reality hits it right between the eyes
and it realizes the truth:
that nature is not pretty
nor peaceful nor noble nor wise,
nor does it exist in order for poets
to compose odes of praise to it--
Then
is when I strike,
in that microsecond
when it understands
that this is what it has come for--
not to observe, admire, or describe--
but to participate in communion;
to discover
the real secret life of nature;
to discover
that it is nothing more--or less--than nourishment;
to discover
that nature never lies;
to discover
that nature is one
big
hungry
f u c k e r,
one big communional meal.
Now the blessing
has been said,
grace over the meal,
now supper is served.
It's delicious.
Oh there are myriad creatures in this emerald diocese;
all colors and sizes and shapes, all with their own
movements and quirks and appetites and tastes;
but of all the creatures
in this green garden of life and death,
I like plant poets the best.
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