Even if there were enough oxygen for me to shout, I wouldn’t be
heard above the howl of chainsaws, the growl and dull rumble of
bulldozers and backhoes. This is not the time for parlor games.
Nevertheless, maybe I can explain in charades. Here is the blue
vanilla tree choking. Here is the liana lovers use to swing across
the torrent, gone dead as Sanskrit. Here the tiger grows torpid.
Here an orchid mops its brow in the heat, and a chatterbox monkey
falls silent. And here the blue and green ball all creatures inhabit
takes its temperature. See it shaking the thermometer in disbelief?
Poem by Joe Smith
Illustration by Honoria Starbuck