by Haley Raines
No — the browning leaf, nor
the budding flower, nor the
bloody calf, stuck with cut
grass where it fell, nor the
aging bear laying down one
last time, nor the squid that
floats, buoyant in the deepest
sea, nor the hummingbird as
it hovers by a hedge, nor the
whale in song, swimming through
cold waters — no, none of these
belong to you, not one (although all
told, in that great congress of beings,
were you to stop a moment, you may
consider, that you, a fool, depend
on each, to a last and precious one,
to eat, live, and breathe).
Haley Raines enjoys the escapism offered by headphones and sour candy. She would like everyone to understand that fantasies about zombie apocalypse are the same kind of distraction. Raines writes and works in Columbus, Ohio.
Image by Xuan Duong from Pixabay.