Biosphere

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The air is a temporary ocean
to wingers and wafters,
where seeds consign with insects
to earth, the ocean bottom.
The warm soil signals;
through a haze of electrons
they plummet into the depths.

Down to the level of mouthers and browsers,
first, an inch above root zone
where sheep nose, where horses rip and munch
and cattle curl their tongues
in the moist autumn motion of grasses
through aerial curtains of web.

White balloonists,
attaching one moment by thread
to grass, to animal noses,
their drift full of purpose, which is
to ensure a spider for every crevice,
the charged air
embodied by creatures in passage.

Particles knocking together,
the patterns are always in motion.
Thistle seeds on a wilful shift lodge by rocks
that move fractions by degradation;
air surges that hump and twist
to throw spume like an ocean dumper.

As we wade the pelagic shallows
for an action like opening a gate
what erratic, sundering currents
we inadvertently make
rip through the aeolian plankton.
The drowned, the torn apart, those that cling
or are ground up in the cattle’s tread.

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