The first witnessed extinction was that of the auroch, a cow standing elephant-high, 
the largest animal in Europe. The last, a female, died in a Polish forest in 1627. 
 
Drawn on cave walls, their horns swooped like a brush stroke.
Causes of death: cattle disease, competition from livestock, 
hunting, corruption, lack of interest (the most fearsome.)
 
We try to back-breed it, bos primigenius, firstborn original cow,
hooking up our tallest and wildest varieties, matching their tallest, 
wildest calves. In seven generations we may have something.
My kids volunteer as crossing guards to save the salamanders 
hatching from vernal ponds, crossing roads to the woodlands, 
but 24 cars an hour, not many, really, kill nine of every ten. 
If we’re late, the pavement’s a slurry of tiny guts, thrashing tails. 
 
Here’s the thing. Life has a better imagination than we do.
Who knew cormorants had bright turquoise eyes?
We hear warblings of extinct birds while we sleep: love songs.
 
Gah, why is love the answer to everything? Ask Wikipedia to define it:
Love “may be understood as a function to keep human beings together
against menaces and to facilitate the continuation of the species.”
 
What will be the last witnessed extinction, before us?
 
What happens when the first novo-supercow slides out 
into a pile of leaves, wobbles up to stand by his mother,
chews the good grass? The scene’s beauty inhales him.