The dying sun gives way to the sightless moon,
A dusting of dead leaves darkens the lawn,
The golden frogs of Panama are gone.
“Never too soon,” says the clean-shaven man
Slouched in the rear of a black limousine;
“Never too soon,” he repeats, looking down
At his manicured nails, “so what if the green
Is gone from Green Hill, if the north is flooded with rain
And the southern jungles are dry as bone,
It’s time to move on.”
The golden frogs of Panama are gone.
And the polar bear and the whooping crane,
And soon the panda and gorilla will go down,
One by one, never to be seen again,
Not by us, not by anyone.

This Issue

September 24, 2009