Echoes of the Tawny Tide

They march, a tawny tide, to tabled tor These lemmings, small, compelled by unseen scripts. With fur so sleek and eyes like twilight pools, They leap—insistent, yet, by nature, fools. Not unlike us, who line our coffee queues, Sip lattes in the shadows of our news. We, too, have dreams penned in our urgent streams, Hustling our hours into other’s schemes. Across the ice, their tiny bodies whisk, While we, in iron jungles, brave and brisk, Echo their path in suits and swifter shoes, Pledge fealty to the buzzes and the blues. At break of day, they meet their ocean fates, A legend wrong, yet who amends their traits? In offices with views of distant shores, We plot and dive, and open unseen doors. In each of us, a hidden force compels— A silent urge that in our actions dwells. Are we driven by instinct, or just misled? As they blindly follow, so we tread. Consider this, while watching their decline: A fall foretold by olden lore as sign, Yet daily we stride forth with no less zest, Unsure if it’s our wisdom or our jest. For what are we but creatures of the rush, Determined, driven by the primal crush? Each day anew, we chase the fleeting light, In quests for meaning, blinded by our plight. Yet, in their leaps, a reckless beauty lies, A wild abandon under Arctic skies. Perhaps in this, the lemmings teach us best: To live with fervor, in each moment pressed. So may we learn, from these small souls so brave, To seek our cliffs with heart, our oceans crave. Though folly it may seem to heedless eyes, In every leap, a chance to find the wise. Thus bound, we share this earth, our fates entwined, A dance of wills, part foolish, part refined. And in our shared pursuit, may we discern The leaps worth taking, and the tides to turn.