I understand history as possibility...that could also stop being a possibility. —Paulo Freire
The winds of extinction sing a mournful song
in the rustling grass,
where the bobwhite drums
and the meadowlark's melody is vanishing.
The winds of extinction sing a mournful song
in the dark forest shadows,
where the boreal chickadee's
voice is no longer heard
and the grosbeak
serenades a coming hush.
The winds of extinction sing a mournful song
over the troubled waters,
where the great scaup
quietly rests for the last time
and the harsh-voiced tern
skydives to death.
The winds of extinction sing a mournful song
while we wait
to find our voices
to sing for their rebirth.