Evening Survivor

The dove’s insistent, as doves are,
As all vocalizing creatures
Are, now you come to think of it

With a slight jolt of surprise—how
Maniacally repetitive
They are, all the calls of the wild.

Mostly drowned out now by machines,
Voices, recorded songs and beats,
And much thinned out by extinctions,

The beasts and birds sound nostalgic,
Pretty, even a bit cringey
In that useless romantic way

Of hymns to nature and the moon,
But the survivors on repeat
Remain, if anything, louder

And more stubbornly insistent
Than ever—why they’re survivors.
Wooh-hoo-hoo-hoo, uwhoo-hoo-hoo.