Out in the Fields
Nimble winged, a late Darter dances
over crops aligned to riverside;
What do you see, pretty hover beast?
More than any drone could tell,
as you survey our loss of sense
and shame, you also bear the cost:
water putrid with untreated filth of man,
this harvest rots unpicked, no hands
able or willing to span a gap
of bordered minds.
Creature of folktales, fairy-light-on-the-air,
will your kind be here in coming years
to tell our myths and mistakes
as once we told of yours.