The deer that wanders through the woods and nibbles at the plants and trees,
then hears a sound, and perks its ears, and raises up its tail, and flees --
does it not have a dancer's grace, a sprinter's speed and skill? And are
its leaves and grasses not as fine as truffles, wine, and caviar?

The hawk that perches near a forest's edge and scans the ground for prey,
or circles in the sky in search of roadkill on a summer's day --
does it not find a warm meal? Do the deer and rodents not provide
a wealth of rich and filling meat for every one of them that's died?

The spotted touch-me-nots that bloom beside the lake in shady spots,
those horn-shaped orange flowers, freckled with a thousand reddish dots --
are they not dappled by a brush as fine as any painter's? And
are not their leaves as well-designed as any by a sculptor's hand?

The ant that scurries through the grass and seeks out food of any kind,
and then returns home promptly to share anything that it can find --
does it not live well? And its eyes, antennae, legs, and snapping jaws --
aren't they as finely engineered as robots' sensors, wheels, and claws?

Whatever gods or forces make the things we see and touch and use,
they must be programmers and painters, following some mystic muse;
they must be patient gardeners, who tend each plant, each bird, each day
with thorough care and skill. That must be how things came to be this way.

-- anonymous