MEASURE OF HUMANKIND

In Dana Wilde's review of Wildness Within Walking Distance he made comments  relating to my kinship with Thoreau and my tendency, as a scientist, to reinforce my poems with evidence. Shortly after reading the review I uncovered, by coincidence (honestly) the poem I'm pasting here, written some years ago.

Measured Response

In spring when the first geese arrive,

confirming the season: when migrant

flocks pass in fall, it's hard to resist 

the temptation to count them all.

Don't you ever, reading Leaves Of Grass.

wonder how many there actually are?

This morning water striders are dotting

the pond. Each jerky stride dimples

the surface, sparking a flash of

reflected light. If I count flashes

per square yard, assuming uniform

distribution, know the pond's area —

At five PM, November twenty-third,

eighteen fifty-three, Thoreau notes

thirty-six geese flying high, south west, 

in the usual harrow formation. 

He assumed an average wing span 

so they were flying eight feet apart.

I'm not alone it seems in trying

to tie numbers to the experienced

as if all had been seen. The setting

sun in Concord, a rising breeze

in Poland Spring ends calculations.

Both scenes survive menstruation.

Perhaps the urge to measure, to count, is a basic human trait. Or am I over reaching here. It's surely not just scientists and naturalists but, perhaps, not everyone.