Survival Instincts

[bruorton]

 

In the news, the wars rage on.

The terrible and the duped 

strive tirelessly to make the world

worse. The world, tired herself,

seems to be complying. But while

the stakes do seem to go nowhere

but up, history would suggest we
have always lived under this pall.

 

Meanwhile, our attention snags

like a bare foot on every jagged nail

of aggravation. This morning the coffee

spilled. The cat made a mess as you

rushed to get out the door. You hit

every stop light. One of those awful 

starts that inevitably heralds, perhaps

manifests, an awful day to come.

 

It's a survival instinct, I suppose,

to focus on the worst things. But 

what is survival, these days? Last

weekend I somehow forgot until

evening the medication I must take

every morning to stop my body 

from destroying itself. Behold, a

tiny miracle: I am still here. This 

 

morning I didn't notice until after 

rinsing my contacts under the faucet

that I hadn't closed the sink drain

first. A terrible start to the day

that never manifested. And now,

walking across the yard, a raven

is making a hilarious ratcheting

noise with its throat, like those

 

wooden toys designed to simulate 

a croaking toad. Juvenile robins, 

summer's first brood to the pair

nesting in the old wreath on the 

garage, are flitting about to test

their wings. After two solid weeks

of rain, the sun is only partially 

obscured by clouds.