If there is a place for me
in this immense unfolding,
may it be alongside the sleek
black slug that moves with
so much confidence in the space
around it, so untroubled by the
trembling chaos.
May my contribution here be the
sweet breathing of the
streaky seed eater – how
small the lungs of a bird
must be, how rapidly they
must work – who pushes creation
forward towards some
invisible point with its
nonchalance, its commitment
to the task of seeds and flying.
I confess this peerhood is
wishful thinking, my existence
too entangled in the machinery,
the diesel exhaust pouring into
pulsing bird lungs.

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