Rapid fire posting here while I have an internet connection. For the dverse prompt.
Could this ever have been me,
the crouching, curled about myself, in the never-quite-warm?
Did I ever sniff night air and curl deeper into the ground,
the cave, the nest, the hollow tree, finding comfort in the insect-busy earth?
Beyond, in the twitching, shifting half-light, half-shadow, is life,
for those who never shake the touch of death from fur or feather.
What do I ever feel but faded, sifted echoes of the life the sun gives?
I tread and and I tramp with shop-bought boots, the frosty grass.
And though I peer into the branches overhead,
where the watchful hawk sits and the mist hangs in tatters,
no cries fall that I can hear,
no lesson learned from the leafless limbs.