how often you think

what a wonderful thing for you,
for us all, to be able to feel.
like the cicadas in the trees,
entire lives under the earth, born to sing.
            you are one of them, i think.
perhaps a cicada, or a mockingbird,
or a fawn wobbling its way through the wood.
you, one of countless, allowed to breathe
the moist air and trip over roots.
you, lone in the journey, snapping photos
of the same sun setting—
             over and over, spinning.
how often you think,

and what a wonderful thing
to look, and to see, and to feel.