Who Owns the Land?

Who owns the land?

I have seen it passing, aNot I, the sparrow.

I have seen it passing, and have dropped

to taste its lively worms. I’ve built a nest

in its red oak and fluttered in the sky

among my children as they learned to fly

above the field. We all have fed here.

Many of us died: so many feathers,

dust of wings.

Many of us died: Who owns the land?

Not I, the fox.

I merely hunt among its shadows.

In the land of snow, I leave my tracks.

In summer corn I pick my way.

I dig my holes, but I owe nothing

to the bank of fools. I borrow time.

I burrow and I bend to every season.

I will come and go, like you—and you.

Who owns the land?

I will come and go, like Not I, the frog.

Even though I take my coloration

from the land I wear, that wears me out.

I merely swallow what the air provides:

a thousand wings, good taste of fly.

I’m hardly more than mud myself,

and nobody owns me.

Im hardly more than mud Who owns the land?

Not I, not I.

I simply live here. Here I die.