By jim bourey
1
What do those yellow butterflies know?
They know enough to find shelter in the rain,
do their aerial nectar-sucking dance all over
the lilacs, identify a mate. All the raucous
birds know sunrise and sunset. They know when
Linda fills the feeders, which one best satisfies their taste
Or am I imagining that part?
Horses down in the Amishman’s pasture
know when to rest,
when to move upon command, nuzzle up
to their pals.
2
As a schoolboy, I was taught
about the levels of sentience by priests
as they tried to explain why humans
were more important than bugs, hares
and bulky cows and moose. Little Johnnie’s
kitten can’t ever go to heaven, said Descartes,
as he prattled on about mens and res extensa,
arguing with a dead Aristotle. The priest agreed.
3
But many of my friends feel
their little collies, cockatoos
or companion goats are every bit as soulful,
as sentient as we exalted humans. Perhaps more.
And, really, who am I to argue with them?
I’ll welcome them all to heaven,
but first I need to see if it’s there.
