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Oh animals, I wish that I were you—
Rutting in spring, the clash of antlers, teeth
That bare to show a pecking order, beaks
That tear a prize from earth, each sun anew.
What is it like to be a bat? It’s true
I couldn’t say what simple thoughts might leave
Your mind, might shadow flight, might give you grief
If only for a moment, but from my view
All moments now are something less than fresh,
The daily jockeying for rank, the earning
Of each slice of bread, the rain that won’t fall,
Each workday just the same, my tiresome flesh,
And most of all the ceaseless pointless yearning
To understand these absurd seasons’ pall.
—IC

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