They say, "Every little bit helps." Or is that the lie we tell ourselves until we are forced to admit, "I should have done more."
Ninety percent of all sea birds have plastic in their belly, it makes them feel full while they starve to death. Som...
As a preteen, I called it a cacophony of screeching.
The shrill soprano trills of Common Sandpipers
Running through the tawny foam, ahead of sandy surf.
The deep baritone chuffing and clacks of Pelicans when someone came too close.
The purring "ah-thertherther-ahhh" of Sandhill Cranes elegantly stalking the shallows,
Contrasted by the staccato bugles of the Blue Herons among the salt reeds.
And always, the multi-voiced choir of the Gulls laughing.
By evening, the rising and falling song of Loons became a lullaby.
In my youth, I did my share of weekends
Picking up orange bags of storm-tossed trash;
Bottles and containers printed in many languages.
Some local, some from the other side of the world.
When I grew older, I tried to recycle as I should.
I occasionally sorted my trash like any conscientious person would.
And yet, soda bottles, snack wrappers, plastic straws
Were often carelessly tossed in a bin while petrol filled my SUV.
"It's just a few things for the landfill," I rationalized.
I didn't know the sea had become the world's waste bin.
My preschooler learned about the Great Pacific Garbage Patch,
"It is a very bad thing made by bad people littering," she explained seriously.
I agreed, then I gave her a baggie of popcorn.
When she got older, we went to the beach of my childhood.
We picked trash together, talking, laughing, until we found it.
Bottlecaps and brightly colored bits in a belly of feathers and bones.
Neck bent back, beak opened as if silently screaming.
My daughter wept over the bird as if it were her favorite pet.
I mourned the poor foolish gull who had eaten its own demise,
As I carefully collected the plastic pieces from its corpse.
We buried it in a shallow sandy grave,
Decorated with shells and driftwood.
That was when I noticed how few birds there were.
Silenced was the choir of Gulls that deafened with laughing calls.
Only a pair here and a loner there.
Mournful individuals sounding out in minor chords.
"Why?" they cried. I wondered that too.
My daughter called with the news yesterday.
Unbelieving, I drove all night to see for myself.
Dirty waves pushed trash to the high-tide line.
I walked the same shore I did in my youth,
Gloved hands picking up plastics.
Silver hair escaped my hat.
It took longer now to bend and stoop,
Shaking out silt and seawater from each piece.
It was quiet except for the drum of the waves.
"Sand blew into my eyes," I lie to myself as tears burn.
Leaning on my cane, trash bag at my feet, admitting,
"The seabirds really are gone."
Staring at the emptiness of the silent sky,
I remember the day we found the dead gull
With its gut full of technicolor plastic pieces.
"I should have done more."
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FYI: Ninety percent of all sea birds have plastic in their belly, it makes them feel full while they starve to death. Someday, they all may die and leave the Silent Skies behind.
