Whittling Our Niche

Imagine what one doesn’t see,

Or hear, or feel, or experience,

Through any one life

On this blue-green globe.

The choice we have is limitless,

The path we choose to take,

Governed by a potent mix

Of genes and circumstantial fate.

Reality comes individually:

A short sweet glimpes, a minute amount, 

From oceans of people 

And desets of place

Within some overall time-set frame

We carve and whittle our niche ,

Discarding the remaining sequoaia tree

For the other seven billion to reach.