without the humans
pedaling along like
ants following paths
the redwoods still stand
still and mighty and feeling
the faintest breeze and dampest
touch of the birds nestled between
branches
never moving unprovoked or uncaused
they wait for nothing because there is
nothing to a redwood but the earth and the sun and
the rain and the ants still pedaling between grooves in her
hardened flesh, no wringer so efficient and wise *******
fallen water and moist air through the tips of toes and out into
the world above the wood ceiling so green and full and bourgeoning
life into the lungs of the moving types unable to stand still and breathe
and watch their god turn miracles by unspoken stories of growth and sheltering
persistence and resolve to manufacture life and color from dirt and water and air so
quietly respired