The Bulldoze Race

I wonder if the petals of the flowers know,

I wonder if the bees have heard,

I wonder if the ancient oaks are praying.

I think they must, the way they

Seem to bend their heads like nuns,

Presenting themselves without shame

And with acceptance. Do they think us

God, or are they smarter than us?

As the artificial mildew snakes

Deeper into once wild plains, will we forget

From where life sprung, smiling and naked?

Will we have the foresight

To look back? Or is this humanity.

Plunging ever forward, reckless and proud

Through the thicket of helpless woods.

Is this then who we are?

The bulldoze race?

Perhaps, for now.