every time I see

a bird, I apologize

there but for the grace of . . .

well, not god

certainly

but the minute perturbation

of gravity just enough

to send a Mannahatta of rock

to its cretaceous appointment in Samarra

where it punched a hole

in a dynasty 180 million years

in the making

of jumped-up rodents

who found the trees

then the stars

it's hard to overstate

the condition of luck

(chance it cuts both ways)

so much is undeserved:

that I tell the grackle

he is descended of kings  

Copyright © 2019 by Robert J. Howe.