On my hike I pause for water by the remains of a tree.
I observe from my sitting place deer bounding past
And squirrels skittering through layers of leaves.
I hear a mechanical roar down the mountain,
Which I try to ignore. A far away crack, then a crash—
Another ancient life lost. My hands find a shred
Of plush moss and I pluck it from the raw, wet roots.
I study it, my eye straining. Water bears occupy
Its feathery green stalks. I roll a piece of moss
Between my fingertips, knowing I can’t crush them.
The species will outlive me. They will outlive the forest
And the rusting metal of a broken chainsaw.
Should the sun burn out tomorrow, or the earth crumple
And implode, the tardigrades will remain in tun,
Left on a planet-shaped husk or flung into space.
The Tributary 