Inconclusion

All things do as they must do.
Caught in the waves, the waves move.
The sin of a plastic bag,

Yanked by blustering grey winds
Across the reservoir’s thrift,
Seems to resists its drowning,

Bouncing and scudding over
The chop of liquid pewter,
Flailing up and smacking down,

But not quite going under.
For the human observer,
A narrative, adventure.

What will happen in the end?
Will the sin of the plastic
Sink to the bottom to wait

Years, decades, millenniums
Before it resurfaces
In the light of that far world,

Stony as the coprolite
Of a tyrannosaurus?
Will it lift off entirely

To snag, like most of its kin,
In a tree’s wintry branches
Or some poor bird’s digestion?

Will it only scud along,
Neither sinking nor rising,
Until the wind goes elsewhere?

Wait, where has that bag gone to?
A human lacks the patience
Or the lifespan for the truth.