I am the naked rock at the bottom of a ditch,
constantly regretting its place in the world.
I am the pine tree celebrating its contact with the wind;
then, looking down miserably, I am the same pine tree when it is alone.
I am the dog running over a slight hill, chasing a squirrel,
barking loudly in a palm grove.
I am the old building it ran past, leaning just off the trail—
broken, defeated, forgotten—
I am the metaphor it has slowly become.