Who am I?

Deer speak their mind on the rain-softened earth,

Dogs on the sidewalk; distinct little paws.

Wind will write volumes with clouds unsuspecting;
birds in formation politely respond.

I’d like to think snails go on feminist rants
inching ahead of their oppressive homes.

Permanence does not say much about quality:
I cannot claim more intelligence.

Who am I but an observer?
I’m not a writer, just  human.