Watching

I think they watch us. Not blinking.
Very little motion. Rather nonchalant.
But notice sometime how they follow
human imprints. Maybe they hear us, too.
Much to our shame if they do.
They hear the human vocabulary:
rip and cut and shred and grind.
These delicate watchers are
the guardians of the earth,
witnesses to the heavy hand of
progress, the belching yellow
tractor with the razor-sharp blade,
crushing the tortoise in her den,
inflicting cruel pain on oaks and
pines that stand in the way of
multi-storied apartments
floating in asphalt sea
parking lots.
Pity the poor coyotes, javalinas
that wander into death, lost
in the mayhem not of
their making.