Evolution

Evolution

The chickens mill and scratch;

what do they know of their theropod ancestry,

how many millennia it took

to evolve a brain, without neocortex,

capable of amodal completion

immediately upon hatching, a brain

that supplies all they need for survival

until the hatchet, predatory snag, parasite, virus?

Hens in the garden stride through scythed weeds,

make an unhurried ambit of the dead

and dying remainders—

Stumps of stalks, twisted beige grasses

the color of birds’ tail and breast feathers,

brown-speckled hens, rumps dun, red combs.

They cluster in a fence corner,

step on each other’s heads,

snap up bees and beetles during autumn’s

short-limbed days. The clawed foot

extends, grasps, clings to roost.

A Jurassic hinge, rusting, its vitality immured

in the muttered musing of hens.

Dry leaves, blooms gone to seed.

How the mighty have fallen.

~

This is an older poem, going back at least ten years. It seemed suitable for the end of autumn and the looming solstice today. I love that I could use the terms amodal and neocortex in a poem. That kind of poetic vocabulary isn’t everybody’s “jam,” but the thwarted scientist in me enjoys playing around with this sort of fact-meets-art interdisciplinary terminology. And yes, there’s an opportunity for metaphor here, in the virus and in the chances evolution randomly develops as to who’s on top or who thinks they are on top. A lesson for us all.