Patchwork

I heard you could calculate the night’s temperature
by the chirps of a cricket;
the time for gathering sap
by the cycles of the moon;
and foretell the future
by the undulating of birds.
Ancient soothsayers,
squawking for fish in the surf.

How often we give up our power
and place
to the conspiracies of the world around us;
instilling the perplexing and mysterious
with the assurance of scales, patterns, and water clocks;
rendering in simple complexity
all of what nature has conjured up
after eons of trial and error,
settling finally into what works best
for now.

All our chronicles of meaning,
patchworked in codes and formulas for the ages;
relentless,
and unprepared,
for the shift in chromosomes;
in currents;
and stars.