There is an ebb ebbing. We share our little Language but we try, Some of us, to flow Beyond the banks Not realizing, usually, That we wash away Shrubs and weeds Which might have Contentedly grown Along these ways Indefinitely. They resent Being turned into Jetsam and fringe The shore with their Complaints. Are we Are at war once again Focusing as we do Upon our direction rather Their grasp of earth We negligently pass by?