the chimp
has a single hunger,
a sharp thought.
a twig, selected, stripped,
a perfect tool for a precise need.
the world narrows to the log,
the log to the hole,
the hole to the goal.
a brilliant, barren line.
the ants are all that are,
and the twig is king.

the wood
has a different hunger,
a deep, green thought.
the log is not a larder,
but a lung.
the twig, once a branch,
drinks light and weather.
the ant is a stitch
in a tapestry of birth,
decay, and rebirth,
weaving the log to the soil,
the soil to the root,
the root to the canopy,
which dreams of the sun.

the chimp’s intuition is a spear.
it points, it pierces, it extracts.

the wood’s intuition is a mycelial net.
it feels, it connects, it sustains.

one seeks to take what it already knows it wants.
the other waits to learn what it is possible to become.