Beauty

There was beauty in the way it
tumbled down.
The icebergs became waterfalls — briefly — 
and dead fish dried on the shores
into white sculptures of a last gasp.
The earth was gasping, big desperate panicked gulps, and we breathed
greedily
feeling closer to our home than ever as we
felt it slip past.
The weather churned and struggled
and we sat on our porches and marveled at the lightning.
The last tiger came into the city
and waited to die — 
it died, as we knew it would,
and we watched it die on our screens all over the world,
then clicked on
to the next story
about the levels of nudity that should be permissible on certain parts of
TV.
We would have mourned the tiger,
we would have mourned the fish,
but there were just too many to mourn, and we thought
we should mourn for ourselves: after all
it was looking more and more likely there’d be no one else
left to do it.