Sugar-gliders are scratching on my roof
and I wonder how the tin doesn’t scorch
their feet – are their mortal soles somehow proof
of a higher power? Prostrate on my porch
lies a bluetongue lizard sun worshipping.
Is it genetics or luck that’s warming
his blood? Apostlebirds are gathering
in the grass, a family communing
while they scrounge for seeds. I don’t want to preach,
as poem transfigures to parable,
because it is you whom I want to reach:
In this world, who is the real animal?
They claim no god, yet act as though there is.
We claim god, then act like he doesn’t exist.