without a need to pray

close to nothing

the small

ones,

burrowed

and hiding

in peat and bog,

crawling

or flying

on air with fragile

wings,

nocturnal

things

with their own 

way of speaking,

of making

due with the life

they've been given.

do they understand

the pain

of love,

the struggle

for the crust of bread,

sin?

all that

we go through each

day,

or are they born 

oblivious

and forgiven,

heaven bound, without

a need to pray.