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.