Sitting in my cubicle
(what an odd name,
like packaging for lamps
or a church ceremony for lost furniture,)
staring out the window down the side
of the steely clean bank tower –there, on the ledge below:
a red-tail hawk has taken a pigeon
and is doing what hungry hawks do to pigeons.
Nothing that interesting is going on
on my computer screen.
There the tired larks of industry
are singing of copper falling
and of bringing oil out of the Bakken
by rail in a great segmented black snake
to thread its way through the dapper wheat fields of eastern Montana
and down the Columbia gorge
to inflate the dark carbuncled eyes
of the new terminal in Vancouver.
I turn back to the hawk
who has finished his meal
and left a few bits
for the blackbirds to clean up shortly.
I hope we are as thrifty with
the overburdened treasure of the earth
waiting in Vancouver to go into our cars
and out our tailpipes–
but I know we won’t be.