Unworthy Ambition

Be still, and listen to the

sounds of earth:

whispers of wind through the grass,

swaying of the branches in its dance,

how timorous the flight of

each set of segmented wings

separates time and space,

creating flight for instances

of insect peril.

How feathered beasts quell

thirsty beaks that pull back soil,

tree bark, and unroot small, 

wriggling worms or larvae in

their sleepy hovels, unearth 

small secrets hiding in plain sight,

their eyes fixed on baubles and trinkets

for their woven homes in trees.

To take flight in a moment, 

the hind’s plight, the hart’s great

test against predator and play alike.

Listen for the brook untended,

the signs of life without souls,

but not without spirit, something 

overlooked in assessing the worth

of water and rock.

It is the essence of man to take from

seemingly useless and create use,

but for this age it is a burden 

that has been cast to better men.

It is in the stillness of a meadow,

the life of what is living with us,

alongside of us, without aid,

nor merchant purpose.

That is not the fate to what we 

were given to care for, allow

the earth to rest, grow fallow,

yet industry and trade barter

better than the fields of earth,

unturned by spade or shovel, 

untouched by man’s presence

or plan. 

Where stars align under no moral,

and moon guides no purpose greater

than what it is, this is where I urge

you to listen, and speak when you

have heard me.

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