Microcosmos

Beneath your feet,
Under the tarmac,
Lie a billion tiny creatures.

They clamber up grass stalks,
and scurry under pebbles.

They speak in vibrations,
Mate at pace,
Life speeded up.

Predators?
There are too many too mention, so they live fast, die young.

They don't wish for glory, fame or money.

Needs are basic:

A little patch of disturbed ground,

A bit of moisture,

Occasional sunny spots,

And enough dead matter for food and shelter.

There is nothing to question, just the business of living.

Little creatures scuttling around,
Enjoying simple things.

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Poem Friday, #5