At Thawr

When I save the spider, it is not as if I like them.
Astonished that they too have hair or maybe
dendrites, bad days, a past and some future.
It's not about that although it helps to consider
their unborn, egg sacs back home, the view
from the sixth floor they might have shown
to a neighbor just that afternoon while the rain
poured down around us all to leave
a clean world, a satisfying odor, wealth.

As the early waking beetle performs the nasty task
preparing trees for the fire, as the bee organizes
the sunflower by tucking rows, finishing with darts
such a wild composition of habits and chores
the world is made of wind and permission.