If I was Created

No one ever decided “I think I'll make a Thatcher today”. Nor a people, a planet or a universe. If I was created, it was as a footprint, a yawn, the crumbs of a fallen branch, the sweet putrid odor wafting from compost, the ache of a bruise from a bump, cascading waves sweeping through tall grass, a fossil reproduction of an extinct spider, the billowing mist lifting off of a waterfall, resounding echos of a sharp clap or a broad crater left by a speck of space dust.

There's a faulty assumption that there has to be a creator behind any and all creation. The earth spins, it's hot core colluding with centrifugal force, to push the crust, that shakes the snow burdened mountain top and loosens a rock, which bounces down the mountainside, crushing a waning flower and spreading its seeds before splashing into the river, where it alters the flow, shelters small fish and anchors generations of moss, slowly eroding into grit that the current ushers to the ocean, where it settles on the floor, is drawn back into the molten core, eventually pressed to the surface to cool, becoming stone that will one day rise above the clouds, awaiting the next big shimmy.

Creation without a creator. The spin, the shake, the bounce, the splash, none of it was intentionally manifested. There was no giant hand shaking the earth globe to make it snow, and no divine master who was inspired to bring me into existence.

I am, simply, a bounce - or maybe a splash. I haven't quite figured that one out yet.