Some Little Thoughts

At the corner of a mound,
The yellow bird sits in peace.
She knows where to rest
For nature dictates to living things,
From ant, to mastodon, to fish, to every hound:
All forms of life;
All must obey, without a sound
Except … for man, who hears no reveille.
For he is master of this earth,
Who claims his worth,
By knowing what is best for life, and living,
Having learnt his trade at birth.
He need not ask for an earthly pall:
He creates it, himself: Hearing not the clarion’s call.

Tall, silent, stately tree,
You look as though you’re weeping.
Here, in this field, amid nature’s gifts,
Why do you look so sad,
You, devoid of avarice and hatred: You, being truly free?
Do you cry at having lost your leaves,
That former show of green
Which adorned your massive form and cupped the morning dew?
If you could talk, what would you say
Of man’s propensity to destroy, as play,
An act he keeps repeating,
Hour after hour, day, after day, after day?
Then, claims the cleansing is a need
To purify his future generation’s seed.