Were I but now the pitch-dark crow that flies

Or yet a plain drab beetle on the ground,

A golden eagle circling through the skies

Or Yeti crab in ocean’s crevice found—

Here still supernal light would course my veins

Imbuing there an essence old as time,

Whether I soar above or haunt the mains,

All share a bond that no soul dare malign.

A life is life—be it the great or small—

Our kinship strung on sacred, spiral strands;

Whether we run, fly, slither, swim or crawl,

All grace born of four letters writ in sand.

So if these brethren vanish, n’er to see—

How desolate our world would truly be.