What Mother Nature’s Daughter Muttered

Mother Nature knew as soon as she had sprung
the thing from its cocoon that she had conjured something
special: the sensitively prescient essence of a better sort
of a female homo sapiens caught in the body of a jellyfish,

whose bluish soft translucence took the languid shape
of baby shark: whose skin was porously amphibian –
breathed air as readily as water: as light as any lark must be
to take to flight: quite as strong and fluid and intelligent

as any daughter ought to be, if it should come to that,
and one day, Mother Nature knew, it would precisely come
to that, when it was time to loose her daughter’s graceful
species on the world to rule. But she would have to wait until

the place had lost its last ignoble bungling human fool –
for when that primate race had sped to what inevitably
seemed a mad careening towards its death. Mother Nature’s
daughter muttered: “Mom – don’t hold your breath.”






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