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Today's NY Times word of the day is molt--something we have a new outlook on since adopting Korra, our Siberian Husky mix. I incidentally came across an article in the Washington post about blue crabs, from which I took the epigraph and a good bit of the really, really interesting imagery and emotion.
"During courtship, the female is molting, meaning her top shell softens as she grows a new and larger one, making her more vulnerable to predators."
Darryl Fears, "To save their depleted species, female blue crabs go the extra mile to spawn in the bay," The Washington Post
What do we know about connection, rivers,
populations, disaster? You simplify:
It's all about the metrics, the weighing and the counting.
The total numbers. Show the bottom line, you insist.
I have strayed away. I might have even
carried you on my back,
only once in my lifetime. I was growing
new and larger. Only once.
Why we went, fanned out like ripples,
to the mouth of the bay.
Why I was still in the winter. Perfectly still.
Why you couldn't save me then.
Then what becomes disaster? A pile of hair,
thinning grass where I cannot hide,
a red predator who is everywhere,
a winter when you stayed but still disappeared.