Small BeingsMature

The wind

picks up


the pine branches.


come the needles, the leaves,

branches too hurt from winter.

There is meaning to its flurried speech,

on its breath carries the chill of mountaintops

far away groves,

pristine, white peaks

not a footprint of an alive creature

but through the wind I still can't drown out the jet planes,

the passing car waves, transient beings,

longing for something clean

Single grasshopper flies up in the sky,

passing my page, makes me look up

broad faded brown fence, peeling,

the distinct 'click' fading away

sounding like a card in a bicycle wheel

sugar ant, piss ant, small black thing

it now has a turn, scurries over,

white and blue of my pen covered page

from the bottom right corner to my hand,

holding up the book at the left top spot

touches my thumb, briefly, then moves on

off my shorts, off the chair, off to other things and other beings to tell

the unavoidable car hum in the distance,

killing all the creatures I speak of

washed clean with windshield whipers

treating death like the brush of wind on their cheek

at most minor amusement, forget and forgot

The eat and breed cycle of all living things


I pray,

for all small beings.

The End

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