Pythagoreans

Bust of Pythagoras

It’s no secret that humans are unique. Shakespeare (through Hamlet) called people “the paragon of animals.” Don’t get me wrong: animals can do some amazing things. I once saw a crow drop out of the sky onto a stroller handle, plunge its head into an unzipped backpack, pull out a bag of fish crackers, and abscond to a nearby shrub where it snacked in perfect peace. That required some serious recon, planning, and timing, to say nothing of flawless execution. But as wise as owls are rumored to be, none have ever done calculus; nor has a song bird ever written a symphony.

Another difference is how gnarled things are in nature while humans use a straight edge to design their habitats. On this planet, we stick out like sore, square thumbs. This inspired today’s poem, “Pythagoreans,” which will be in my upcoming book Above the Rain.

Pythagoreans

Hills roll and break 
like waves of rock and soil,
willows crawl up from the riverbank
on branching, bushy insect legs,
and scrub brush scribbles
over tousled tufts of prairie grass.

The stop light where I wait
hangs from a pole at right angles 
with another pole jutting from the pavement 
like an exclamation;
lego buildings boxed in by fences
line the roads, which are laid out in a grid.

What are we 
that make bar graph cities 
wherever we land?

Pythagoreans,
extra-terrestrials building pyramids
in flowing sands.