Her Journals

You used to write of birds,
The thoughts that they must spawn,
Free as they are from the human follies,
Of selfish ambition,

There is naught to prove they're any less deep,
A cocky presumption,
That our blundering grope for some meaning,
Shows we possess some greater perception.

"But what," you said, "do we have on the birds?"
Content in their motions,
If any faith at all can be granted,
To our observations,

Which are oft base,
Grounded in aversion,
More than likely we're observed from on high,
An example of nature's perversion.