Seen from above (real seeing always looks down:
do worms worry about God?), nothing grows up,
we spread from on high. No egg has ever made
a chicken until a chicken made an egg.
Like giant trees with tiny leaves: big
foals out little, as heifers drop their calves.
Cows may think life’s grazing, enjoying a cud,
and bulls may think life’s humping cows, but Nature
knows better. Birds and bees can’t mix and match,
nor generations. Do penguins regret they’re birds
that never fly? What crow imagines a heaven
lined with corn, instead of the field it flies in?
Do bulls sharpen their horns on a tree, waiting
for herdsmen, plotting a coup? All flowers on earth,
pulling together, can’t budge an aphid. But flowers
don’t try to move the world: the power of flowers
is hue, not cry. All of us crack our shells
as we enter the world, and flap away to Destiny.
Do birds forget? Nests and birds grow old,