The Paleontologist's Lament

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After publishing several papers about the terminal Cretaceous event—
I no longer talk about it.
The field is full of idiots (for lack of a better term.)
And the meteorite people? Mostly non-paleontologists.
I shun the subject even in my classes.
So where do these details lead us?
To a meditation perhaps.

Imagine an atmosphere too toxic for our employ
sustaining creatures who roamed the earth
bird-hipped or lizard-hipped
towering among early magnolias and cypresses
or seeking shade at midday to cool their reptilian cores.

We have removed them from their graves to keep them close—
calcified monuments to the scope of our desire,
they have known wars as we will never know
swift    lean    focused
before the clumsy tools of habilis dawned
to scavenge flesh, coax tubers from dry ground.

The life of the hunter, the life of instinct
and myself in a unique position,
defending these beasts
leaving me at once empowered and inadequate.

Lately at night in dreams, I see Father
dead since I was a boy
here resting, atop a mound of mandibles, twigs, dried leaves, and snow.