Oh, you animal, soggy from the rain,
along the fallen log, down the slimy rock
and through the sharp grass where you
grub for beetles with your dirty, gritty feet.
You, with your twigs and your leaves
and your soil—so much soil!—and
crevices and branches and mosses.
And me, in my glass box with my shoes
and my knives and my forks and my plastic wraps
so developed and estranged from the world I’m made of.