SMALLEST IS SACRED

a wrensermon

The flightless bipeds, ponderously slow
  as insubstantial trolls of cumulus
  that loll about the table of the world,
emerge from house to garden, come and go
  while I, as quick as blinking, quick as light,
  dart out of sight.

Obtuse beyond belief, they think I am
  a flying leaf, a shadow, a russet rag,
  a mouse run to its crevice in the crag
Which shelters me among the armoured game
  that scuttles quick as winking, quick as light,
  out of my sight.

Quicker than I, the summer hoverfly
  changes its airy stations. Glassy wings
...