Predictable

What were the odds they did not know? So many, many years ago, according to the records they had left in there, it seems the answer was, quite low. How strange the paradox of nature, how unpredictable the outcome of its selections, how some variations with the best chance to survive became the human species, became nature reflecting on itself, yet could not understand that to stop adapting to its environment, instead to change it, exploit it, a tipping point would be reached, a no going back extinction event would be unleashed, and adaptation would no longer be an option. Oh the stories we have found! The art fantastic as the sounds of sea on shore, birds awakening with the golden dawn and the scent, still present in its capsule, of an ancient rose. How primitive their science, yet how predictable the future was for them in small steps undertook with effort: they knew slide rule soon and to the second when Apollo would return from the dark side of the moon; they knew nano chip soon and to the second when and where an eclipse of the sun would pass at noon; they knew too soon and to what degree rising temperatures and rising seas foretold their doom. What were the odds they did not know how precious was this Eden, how rare an oasis in a vast unfriendly space, when they sealed this vault five million years ago? (Should this poem go in the vault? If so, we have ten years left and then we'll know and they'll know, too . . . we knew.) - original poem written on the 5th of December in the year 2019 CE Predictable poetry contest sponsored by Nina Parmenter