shiny beetles, walking on hot concrete.
Hard shell shielding delicate wings – we choose not to use.
Better, we think, to lumber on with stumbling steps;
Making mountains out of the terrain in front of us and always
Unaware of the vast, the unseen green, spread out beyond the mowing strip.
But hopeful. Knowing never, ever to stop.
For that way lies death.
What wings have we who cannot fly?
To see, to soar, beyond the twigs, the obstacles perceived, toiled over.
Connection. I look at you, and your hard shell.
I see you are a beetle too.