Acorn

by Raymond A Stanton

I lay beneath the great oak that sits with many,

Disregarded by the fading footsteps that ripen with drifting time,

Resting on a bed of the fallen,

Sensing my surroundings,

But never with understanding,

A chatter heard in darkness,

A sniff,

Calmness,

Clenched in the grasp of hunger,

Rising again,

To fall anew.