How great, those faceless, resting beasts
wind shuddering their haunches,
shushing them to sleep,
heads bent and shoulders bowed
mighty, and I cower as I slink past
quiet and watching
on threads of black asphalt
between them.
They shake tangled, wild manes,
stretch out under a sharp blue sky
and golden blanket of sun
belonging here, absolutely.
They peer at me
warning with their grandeur
that my presence here is an allowance
and small; oh, brief smallness!
How great the years, the rivers that rushed past
the creatures that padded the crumbling earth
the rumbles deep within the mother
that shifted and soothed them,
the God-hands that formed them
Are they always sleeping?
are they always so content
and trusting that
the sun and the moon will take turns
the rain will quench them
and societies, abide them
I imagine they rage and protest only when we have gone too far
dug into their flesh
for lifeblood again and again
to run our machines,
torn apart their limbs
to gorge ourselves
believing happiness
must begin with destruction
in order to gratify short-lived pleasures.
If only they could shake us off like fleas from a dog
But they, those great beasts
were always happy to rest;
content, towering, untamed,
holding secrets and ages.
They let me pass
and when I look over my shoulder
and see that they do not follow
I long for that which made me feel small
