|(Written originally on 12/5/19)
When we glide around our playful day,
Absorbed in a moody play.
So haughty that we don't care,
If picking on butterflies is fair,
If hurting little ants over that tree,
Comes today really free;
But someday they will surely fly,
Like we do in our gifted sky.
And our decades of wine,
Will end watching them shine.