From atop the ancient gnarled oak
An owl looks down on the earth,
Sees people ever running, striving,
Scurrying along the hardened ground.
The pensive bird placidly ponders–
Who are these animals that hurry?
They race, rush, and fret, but why?
When will they open their wings to fly?
The feathered sage rotates his head
To scan the horizon’s circumference.
As the sun sinks ‘neath the skyline,
He sighs, spreads his wings and soars.