meditation on another life

When I left Santa Cruz, I had been writing through climate anxiety for over two years. 

The forests didn't keep to dampness like it once did. Less and less banana slugs ventured out

to be seen. In the blinding light of summer, I wrote to the mourning dove who took refuge

in the shadows of hotel buildings. Valley dwellers swarmed to town for a dip in the chilling

sea. The dove had enough, burrowed herself there in the cool earth, and hummed. Just 

north of that, a small hill grew rich with clovers. Sunflowers loved the sun to death. Pink

ladies necked the skies until they burned red. I left after the great oranging, a smog from 

nearby wildfires blanketing the city. I left after the clovers. When the rivers were starved. 

And yet, people came in packed cars, they privatized the shore, they left beer cans in the

sand. They didn't notice the river's narrowing. The hidden doves. The banana slugs, fearful

of sun scorching. I went to work on the day of black sun. I wore a mask. I waited for the 

evacuation warnings. I sold books. That day, a hummingbird flew into the store. It beat its

wings against the high windows in confusion, and I waited beneath it, I caught it as it weakly

fell to the ground. From the tip of my finger I fed it sugary water, it slurped the droplets. I hid

in the breakroom, nurturing this tiny being. When it was strong enough, I sent it back to the

skies.