In the southern hemisphere of my birth,
The sun, as humans like to say, 
Is going away for the winter.
Prepare for the wind and its rigors.

In the northern hemisphere of my abode,
The birds have returned, feathers
Full of warmth, limbs in heat,
to say nothing of those beaks full of chatter.

I walk in the woods,
Agog at a forest floor teeming with life,
Where yesterday was a thick blanket of snow,
With the occasional foot, paw, and hoof print.

How is it that most beings on this beloved planet,
Trust the Earth and the Sun,
And are eager to please, to hold their place
In the tapestry of life?

Except for me and my kind,
Who we see in every tree and river, 
A resource and resources,
Not the holy air and holy water that they are.

Holy?
Well, on Earth, without air, is consciousness possible?
On Earth, without water, is life as we know possible?
Is this whole Earth not the Holy Land? 

Or,
Is consciousness wasted on us?