Tuesday, December 6, 2016


                    I wonder where old birds go off to die:
                    I’ve never seen a corpse, still, on the ground
                    Except those shot by hunters, on the fly
                    For so-called “sport,” or as a food source downed.
                    But trust to Nature’s great recycling plan
                    To be more prudent than a human scheme;
                    There’re many other creatures who well can
                    Cause us to question our own self-esteem.
                    Our primal forebears mastered well the arts
                    Of coveting Earth’s bounties that abound
                    Before we came with doubly sapient smarts
                        To vaunt and covet and to dominate
                        With sapience better used to ruminate.