Today there was a Gray Treefrog
tucked away in the Late Boneset leaves,
gorgeous and tiny and fragile,
like most living things, when you think about it.

The strands that weave us humans into the web of life are,
perhaps, less delicate than those of tree frogs
or butterflies or humming birds or fireflies,
depending on where we live.

Perhaps not,
depending on how much value our lives
are seen to hold as potential for extraction
by rich and powerful people who couldn’t possibly know the sheer joy

of spotting a tree frog
in your favorite shady spot on a hot July afternoon,
of observing butterflies
flitting between plants you let grow wild that others might discard as weeds,

of standing inches from a hummingbird
hovering over blossoms you grew from hand-me-down seeds,
of pausing to marvel at a resting firefly
illuminating flower petals in fading summer light,

of knowing the value of each life, everywhere,
is immeasurable and connected,
far beyond what the atrophied hearts
of oppressors can understand.