A normal day

I’m neither young nor old

carrying the sea on my shoulders

rises and swerves

in downward spiral.

Rains create

creeks and rivers

linking the mountains

and the sea.

Days of bitterness

intertwine with days of sweetness

waves dashing the calm

and the brave.

Young as a child

old as a man

in tumult or silent

running the fields

or hiding in shelters

pursue birds or fowl

with slingshots or guns

with relish.

How are they to discover

the hidden music

if not to relinquish the savage

feel, cruel pleasure

perceived in power

but over the helpless?

How can they follow

movements of the bees

from flower to flower

when they don’t see

the simple things

visible to the eyes?

At the picnic table

we swat away the bees

they, that fill

stages of sustenance

of meadows and forest.

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