Say This

I live a small life, barely bigger than a speck,

barely more than a blip on the radar sweep

though it is not nothing, as the garter snake

climbs the rock rose shrub and the squirrel creeps

on bramble thorns. Not nothing to the crows

who heckle from the crowns of the last light’s trees

winterstripped of green, except for the boles

that ivy winds each hour round. See, the world is busy

and the world is quick, barely time for a spider

to suck the juice from a hawk moth’s head

so it can use the moth as a spindle that it wraps in fiber

while the moth constricts until it’s thin as a stick

you might think was nothing, a random bit

caught in a web coming loose from the window frame, in wind.