The world exists just fine without
our appreciation. It is not for us
that the dandelions bloom in tides of yellow
across the valley floor. It is not for us
that the elk stream in a slow brown current
before they disappear into the Englemann spruce.
And then there are the tiny empires
of grasshoppers, ants and bees—
and the underground realms of prairie dogs
and worms and rhizomes and moles—
so much of the world we never see.
And still, this drive toward gratitude.
Still this tug to pull over the car and step out,
this impulse to offer the world my attention.
As if being very still were as vital to
the moment as the scurry and swerve,
scamper and stride. As perhaps it is.