The island animals roam into the cities. Coyotes nip at the
governor’s heels as he shuffles up the Capitol steps. The lion
statues watch on from beneath a film of toxic dust. Bison take beef
cattle concubines. Mix everything up. Ranchers are bereft. A
bobcat sneaks into the nursery and watches an infant sleep. This
will happen again. California gulls shit. On everything. The
Capitol building looks like paper mache. Ten million migratory
birds bathe in the closing throats of our rivers. They lay eggs that
bob along the river bed. The rivers become more yolk than water.
Rainbow trout fall in love with the vibrant bellies of the new birds.
Everything is confused. No one catches any fish. Mule deer wade
into the wetlands and then, the suburbs. Gnawing everything.
Packs of coyotes recruit wandering dogs. They rewild the things
we let go astray. Chukars clog the gutters of every home with their
round bodies. Burrowing owls move into our mailboxes. No one
receives any mail without someone getting pecked. The price of
stamps goes up. Brine shrimp become brine air and everyone’s
mouth tastes like fish food. No love is made. Pronghorn
antelope—they become brackish, furious even. They leap over
highways and vinyl fences and reclaim the yards. They realize that
prey animals don’t have to be peaceful. They realize that horns are for defending, and for sounding the alarm.

Patrick Ramsay is a queer Utah-based poet who was raised in and along the wetlands of the Great Salt Lake. He owns Happy Magpie Book & Quill, an independent pay-what-you-want bookshop in Ogden, Utah.