Swirling sky, I look to thee.
Is not thy coloring destiny?
Thou spinneth thy threads so delicately;
Yellow, red, blue.
If I could fly, I'd spin there too.
Stalking wolf, I look to thee.
Is not the hunt thy destiny?
The lambs do run and so do I.
Thou couldst catch me—thou couldst try.
Twisting eel, I look to thee.
Is not thy coral destiny?
Thou hideth within and waiteth for prey.
Do they come? Still thou doth stay.
Grazing doe, I look to thee.
Is not thy flight-hoof destiny?
Necessity?
The buck cometh near—the barrel does shoot.
The saplings listen.
They spread their roots.
Tunneling worm, I look to thee.
Is not thy reaping destiny?
Thou tunneleth and moldeth.
Thou tunneleth and moldeth.
Thy duty equates to what is gold.
Towering oak, I look to thee.
Are not thy branches destiny?
Thou mayst be a lot like me,
though thou canst truly see
Patiently—
Unblinded by humanity's fee.
Thou absorbeth the perpetual light
and what the earth can sow—
Gnarled limbs grow.
Thou awaiteth forever.
Forever does know.
