The air’s entrails scatter throughout
the entire body of earth’s matter,
settling snug on the shoulder of a bug,
bitten by the wind’s pressing whip,
force enough to crack an acorn for a squirrel,
rustle down a collage of leaves, ripened fruits,
hollow honeycomb or feather bedding.
So powerful and provoking, yet providing free transport
to seeds, pollen, pheromones and water droplets.
Marathon miles may not be difficult as the crow flies,
riding on open currents of the atmosphere,
lofty perspective where the sun never sleeps
and nothing but the sky towers over pin-head specks.
The significance of scale has lost its purpose in the clouds,
reference points useless in an ever changing panorama.
What weight have we here, what substance, what mass
without the heart, stomach, direction and path?