The Spotted Owl
The spotted owl is a small thing,
A bit of flesh upon the wing,
Yet lawyers argue of its worth
With words that echo o'er the earth.
Loggers count the good jobs lost,
Saying astronomical the cost
Of saving forests for this bird,
That preservation arguments are absurd.
This insignificant, dark brown fowl,
The one we call the spotted owl,
Inhabits forests of the Northwest,
Where loggers consider him a pest.
The preservationists are just as loud,
As any of the timber crowd.
"If the owl is lost, " they loudly cry,
"The fragile eco-system will also die,
Following that the forests too.
Then what will the timber companies do?"
In a short time, it will be too late,
Two-thousand pairs, the estimate.
What gives mankind the right to say
What species lives, which goes away?
Just like a row of dominos,
When the first one falls, another goes.
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