Living Planet Report

A poem

On my morning drive to the beach, 
NPR quotes something called the 
Living Planet Report. It says
73 percent of all
wild animals have died in my 
lifetime. Predawn light washes out
what remains of the stars as I
grab wetsuit, fins, towel and trudge 
down the trail. I’m reminded of
the scene in Easy Rider where, 
despite selling all the blow and
making it down to Mardi Gras,
a doomed Captain America
says, “You know, Billy, we blew it.”

On the beach, a raven eats the 
guts of a raven while the lone
nesting Western Snowy Plover
huddles somewhere up in the dunes.
I pull on my neoprene and
dive into the ocean. A wave
slaps me awake and I intone
The Serenity Prayer without
much conviction. Hardly any
gray whales this year and they say the
ocean is hotter than ever.
I can smell a sea lion corpse.
A woman walks her two dogs down
to the beach and lets them off leash. 

Like psychos, the dogs sprint away
chasing one another in the
direction of the plover nest.
Annoyed, the raven waddles from
his meal like a drunk man in boots,
reluctantly takes wing just as 
one of the dogs rolls in the guts.
I want to turn and swim from the shore,
out into deeper water, but
I’m afraid of white sharks, which are
all going hungry thanks to the
marine heat wave. Instead, I watch
the sun rise over pasture land,
say, “You know, Billy, we blew it.”