The Move

Doctor Wright, does nothing wrong. When not arranging information, she sits perfectly still.

Hard blinks for discomfort, or to wrap things up. Her lids soft-close, to say ‘it’s your turn to speak’. Her honey words, “Please, go on.”— soothe. And break her steely cover.

Doctor Wright taps out, to clipboard.

“‘All give way to metamorphosis. Migration is expected. In fits and starts is the trek, toward needed change.

All meet and greet, and relate— to create, but lose some, along the way.

Some soldiers carry the wounded. Flesh, yet to succumb to its fate. Bones worn inside-out. Exoskeletons crushed, ‘tween rock and heavy feet.

Under heel, pain is apparent. Souls dejected, from squashed to dead. And so, the ‘Great Move’ begins. An exodus divorces the messy past. All to sniff-out freedom!’— Or words to that effect.

He prodded with a fattened finger— squeezed by a misplaced wedding ring. ‘This gang, are gatherers— see the leaves?’”

Doctor Wright leans in, “Go on, please.”

“‘Backs bent by fallen foliage. The small and mighty, haul and shift a scintillating, dark bronzed forest floor.

And the brood— the babies, they’re carried too.’ He said.

I traced the string of galloping ants. Some speckled, white or green with youth.

‘What can I carry daddy— What should I take?’

‘It’s late, Take those.’ With a wink.

I bundled dolls and rocks and leaves; cradled all, in miniature arms. Piled high, to sightless, led to stumbles—an awkward trek back to his car.

‘Drop you at your mum’s, she’ll be waiting.’

THAT’S when I knew the world was sick—first lesson in ‘climate’ change, with love from Mum and Dad.”

Tappy-tappy, tappy-tappy. Seeing the discomfort, Doctor Wright taps-in, with a thumb to Parker pen. Deflating her small frame, with crafty finesse, she breathes, “Please, go on.”

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