One butterfly passes by, drifting upon the wind.
Two beautiful wings – colorful things – stir dust up from the sand.
Three ants march forth – rank and filed, of course – with unhatched eggs above.
Four budding blooms and five new-born ‘shrooms have intrigued a hatchling dove.
Six stones in a pile haven’t moved in a while, but they look as though they may fall.
Seven bees buzz around the flowers on the ground, collecting pollen from them all.
Eight minutes of peace is all that I need to calm my stress, and then
Nine minutes past, I see that I have found a small moment of zen.
Reality coalesces as an amorphous glob of events –
Quite uncertain of its intent to seize a definite form.
Relevance pulls the maleable clump to settle upon a context,
And the fringes – though still reality – lose all sense of veracity.
Where did the truth go?
Without context, a true statement may fall unknown,
For is it not perspective that lends familiarity to the context?
How do we grow to know another without first being present?
But with the knowledge of another, what was once true may prove false.
Nothing is written in stone.
On the dawn of a new day, memory may refute history
As a new reality is ushered in by a newly-forged perspective.
The old reality does not crumble, but slips to the edge,
Allowing a new truth to decimate its predecessor with context.
The fringes of reality fray.
There’s a reason that I call my mates my pride.
It’s an honor that we all maintain inside,
Should anyone of us get into fight,
You can bet your ass we all have you in sight.
I will fight for the survival of my mates,
For I can’t tell how cruel tomorrow’s fates
Might be to myself, leaving me misery,
Without a mate to help with my victory.
We tumble as young cubs in the desert heat,
Training for future dangers that we may meet.
We train together – disregarding genders,
For mothers hunt while dads are our defenders.