Racing

The race for the finish
is for the early finished,
the wallowing proud
pulling away from the crowd.

My heart is too slow
to go as the crow,
I'd get there mid way
or last, as they say.

I'll be here sitting
or laying about
not hurrying these trees
to grow or to shout.

The world will move on
find strong over weak
yet I'll nary go yon
a song with the meek.

For status and power
nothing I'd do
backstroke in the flowers
the muck of the slough.

Turn cranks up and down
or machinery fix
none of that town
watching the sticks.

The race for the finish
a path for diminish
the crowd is too loud
and calves are all cowed.