The ant, his sting—
the scorpion, his horn—
the lowly on this earth
rise up, adapt.
The cactus spine,
the thistle’s quill
survive the brilliance
that has blinded us.
The coyote knows
we have never been
that exceptional,
except as providers—
making his living
knowing how we think,
then waits
to clean-up behind us.
All our wealth and power,
instant ease and comforts
feed him, yet we are starved
for something more secure
than convenient hearts
carved to hang bejeweled
around our necks
on heavy chains.
It is no secret,
we have lost
our humility,
that sense of awe
that boils us down
to nothing
of any real
significance.
for JEG
drycrikjournal 